 Part 1 of the Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Part 1 of the Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley. Chapter 1 His return to consciousness was a slow and painful process. It was a journey in which he traversed all time. He dreamed. He rose through thick layers of sleep out of the imaginary beginnings of all things. He lifted like a pseudopod from primordial ooze, and the pseudopod was him. He became an amoeba which contained his essence. Then a fish marked with his own peculiar individuality. Then an ape unlike all other apes. And finally he became a man. What kind of man? Dimly he saw himself faceless, a beamer gripped tight in one hand, a corpse at his feet. That kind of man. He awoke, rubbed his eyes and waited for further memories to come. No memories came. Not even his name. He sat up hastily and willed memory to return. When it didn't he'd looked around seeking in his surrounding some clue to his identity. He was sitting on a bed in a small gray room. There was a closed door on one side. On the other, through a curtained alcove, he could see a tiny lavatory. Light came into the room from some hidden source, perhaps from the ceiling itself. The room had a bed and a single chair and nothing else. He held his chin in his hand and closed his eyes. He tried to catalog all his knowledge and the implications of that knowledge. He knew that he was a man, species, Homo sapiens. An inhabitant of the planet Earth. He spoke a language which he knew was English. Did that mean there were other languages? He knew the commonplace names for things. Room, light, chair. He possessed in addition a limited amount of general knowledge. He knew that there were many important things which he did not know, which he once had known. Something must have happened to me. That something could have been worse. If it had gone a little further, he might have been left a mindless creature without a language, unaware of being human, of being a man, of being of Earth. A certain amount had been left to him. But when he tried to think beyond the basic facts and his possession, he came to a dark and horror-filled area. Do not enter. The situation into his own mind was as dangerous as a journey to what? He could not find an analogue, though he suspected that many existed. I must have been sick. That was the only reasonable explanation. He was a man with the recollection of memories. He must at one time have had that priceless wealth of recall, which now he could only deduce from the limited evidence at his disposal. At one time he must have had specific memories of birds, trees, friends, family, status—a wife, perhaps. Now he could only theorize about them. Once he had been able to say, This is like, or that reminds me of. Now nothing reminded him of anything, and things were only like themselves. He had lost his powers of contrast and comparison. He could no longer analyze the present in terms of the experienced past. This must be a hospital. Of course, he was being cared for in this place. Kindly doctors were working to restore his memory, to replace his identity, to restore his judgment apparatus, to tell him who and what he was. It was very good of them. He felt tears of gratitude start in his eyes. He stood up and walked slowly around his room. He went to the door and found it locked. That locked door gave him a moment of panic which he sternly controlled. Perhaps he had been violent. Well, he wouldn't be violent any more. They'd see. They would award him all possible patient privileges. He would speak about that with the doctor. He waited. After a long time he heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside his door. He sat on the edge of the cot and listened, trying to control his excitement. The footsteps stopped beside his door. A panel slit open and a face peered in. How are you feeling? The man asked. He walked up to the panel and saw that the man who questioned him was dressed in a brown uniform. He had an object on his waist which could be identified after a moment as a weapon. This man was undoubtedly a guard. He had a blunt, unreadable face. Could you tell me my name? He asked the guard. Call yourself 402, the guard said. That's your cell number. He didn't like it, but 402 was better than nothing at all. He asked the guard. Have I been sick for long? Am I getting better? Yes, the guard said in a voice that carried no conviction. The important thing is to stay quiet, obey the rules. That's the best way. Certainly said 402, but why can't I remember anything? Well, that's the way it goes, the guard said. He started to walk away. 402 called after him. Wait, you can't just leave me like this. You have to tell me something. What happened to me? Why am I in this hospital? Hospital, the guard said. He turned toward 402 and grinned. What gave you the idea this was a hospital? I assumed it, 402 said. You assumed wrong. This is a prison. 402 remembered his dream of the murdered man. Dream or memory? Desperately he called after the guard. What was my offense? What did I do? You'll find out, the guard said. When? After we land, the guard said. Now get ready for assembly. He walked away. 402 sat down on the bed and tried to think. He had learned a few things. He was in a prison and the prison was going to land. What did that mean? Why did a prison have to land and what was an assembly? 402 had only a confused idea of what happened next. An unmeasurable amount of time passed. He was sitting on his bed trying to piece together facts about himself. He had an impression of bells ringing and then the door of his cell flew open. Why was that? What did it mean? 402 walked to the door and peered into the corridor. He was very excited but he didn't want to leave the security of his cell. He waited and the guard came up. All right now the guard said, no one's going to hurt you. Go straight down the corridor. The guard pushed him gently. 402 walked down the corridor. He saw other cell doors opening, other men coming into the corridor. It was a thin stream at first but as he continued walking more and more men crowded into the passageway. Most of them looked bewildered and none of them talked. The only words were from the guards. Move along now, keep on moving, straight ahead. They were headed into a large circular auditorium. Looking around 402 saw that a balcony ran around the room and armed guards were stationed every few yards along it. The presence seemed unnecessary. These cowled and bewildered men weren't going to stage a revolt. Still he supposed the grim-faced guards had a symbolic value. They reminded the newly awakened men of the most important fact of their lives. That they were prisoners. After a few minutes a man in a somber uniform stepped out on the balcony. He held up his hand for attention although the prisoners were already watching him fixedly. Then, though he had no visible means of amplification, his voice boomed hollowly through the auditorium. This is an indoctrination talk, he said. Listen carefully and try to absorb what I'm about to tell you. These facts will be very important for your existence. The prisoners watched him. The speaker said, All of you have within the last hour awakened in your cells. You have discovered that you cannot remember your former lives, not even your names. All you possess is a meager store of generalized knowledge enough to keep you in touch with reality. I will not add to your knowledge. All of you back on earth were vicious and depraved criminals. You were people of the worst sort. Men who had forfeited any right to consideration by the state. In a less enlightened age you would have been executed. In our age you have been deported. The speaker held out his hands to quiet the murmur that ran through the auditorium. He said, All of you are criminals and all of you have one thing in common. An inability to obey the basic obligatory rules of human society. Those rules are necessary for civilization to function. By disobeying them you have committed crimes against all mankind. Therefore mankind rejects you. You are grit in the machinery of civilization and you have been sent to a world where your own sword is king. Here you can make your own rules and die by them. Here is the freedom you lusted for the uncontained and self-destroying freedom of a cancerous growth. The speaker wiped his forehead and glared earnestly at the prisoners. But perhaps, he said, a rehabilitation is possible for some of you. Omega, the planet to which we are going, is your planet. A place ruled entirely by prisoners. It is a world where you could begin again with no prejudices against you, a clean record. Your past lives are forgotten. Don't try to remember them. Such memories would serve only to re-stimulate your criminal tendencies. Consider yourselves born afresh as of the moment of awakening in yourselves. The speaker's slow measured words had a certain hypnotic quality. 402 listened his eyes slightly unfocused and fixed upon the speaker's pale forehead. A new world, the speaker was saying. You are reborn, but with the necessary consciousness of sin. Without it you would be unable to combat the evil inherent in your personalities. Remember that. Remember that there is no escape and no return. Guard ships armed with the latest beam weapons patrol the skies of Omega Day and Night. These ships are designed to obliterate anything that rises more than 500 feet above the surface of the planet. An invincible barrier through which no prisoner can ever pass. Accommodate yourselves to these facts. They constitute the rules which must govern your lives. Think about what I've said and now stand by for landing. The speaker left the balcony. For a while the prisoners simply stared at the spot where he had been. Then tentatively a murmur of conversation began. After a while it died away. There was nothing to talk about. The prisoners without memory of the past had nothing upon which to base a speculation of the future. Personalities could not be exchanged for those personalities were newly emerged and still undefined. They sat in silence, uncommunicative men who had been too long in solitary confinement. The guards on the balcony stood like statues, remote and impersonal. And then the faintest tremor ran through the floor of the auditorium. The tremor came again and it changed into a definite vibration. 402 felt heavier as though an invisible weight were pressing against his head and shoulders. A loudspeaker voice called out. Attention! The ship is now landing on Omega. We will disembark shortly. The last vibration died away and the floor beneath them gave a slight lurch. The prisoners, still silent and dazed, were formed into a long line and marched out of the auditorium. Flanked by guards they went down a corridor which stretched on interminably. From it 402 began to get some idea of the size of the ship. Far ahead he could see a patch of sunlight which shone brightly against the pale illumination of the corridor. His section of the long shuffling line reached the sunlight and 402 saw that it came from an open hatchway through which the prisoners were passing. In his turn 402 went through the hatchway, climbed down a long stairway and found himself on solid ground. He was standing in an open sunlit square. Guards were forming the disembarked prisoners into files. On all sides 402 could see a crowd of spectators watching. A loudspeaker voice boomed. When your number is called your identity will now be revealed to you. Answer promptly when your number is called. 402 felt weak and very tired. Not even his identity could interest him now. All he wanted to do was lie down to sleep to have a chance to think about his situation. He looked around and took casual note of the huge starcraft behind him. Of the guards, the spectators. Instead he saw black dots moving against a blue sky. At first he thought they were birds. Then, looking closer, he saw they were guard ships. He wasn't particularly interested in them. Number one, speak out. Here the voice answered. Number one your name is Wayne Southholder, age 34, blood type AL2. Index AR-431C. Guilty of treason. When the voice had finished a loud cheer came up from the crowd. They were applauding the prisoner's traitorous actions and welcoming him to Omega. The names were read down the list and 402 drowsy in the sunshine dozed on his feet and listened to the crimes of murder, credit theft, deviationalism, and mutantism. At last his number was called. Number 402. Here. Number 402 your name is Will Burrent, age 27, blood type OL3. Index JX221R. Guilty of murder. The crowd cheered but 402 scarcely heard them. He was trying to accustom himself to the idea of having a name. A real name instead of a number. Will Burrent. He hoped he wouldn't forget it. He repeated the name to himself over and over again and almost missed the last announcement from the ship's loudspeaker. The new men are now released upon Omega. You will be given temporary housing at square A2. Be cautious and circumspect in your words and actions. Watch, listen, and learn. The law requires me to tell you that the average life expectancy on Omega is approximately three earth years. It took a while for those last words to take effect on Burrent. He was still contemplating the novelty of having a name. He hadn't considered any of the implications of being a murderer on an underworld planet. Chapter 2. The new prisoners were led to a row of barracks at square A2. There were nearly five hundred of them. They were not yet men, they were entities whose true memories extended barely an hour in time. Sitting on their bunks the newborns looked curiously at their bodies, examined with sharp interest their hands and feet. They stared at each other and saw their formlessness mirrored in each other's eyes. They were not yet men, but they were not children either. Certain abstractions remained and the ghosts of memories. Maturation came quickly, born of old habit, patterns, and personality traits retained in the broken threads of their former lives on earth. The new men clung to the vague recollections of concepts, ideas, rules. Within a few hours their phlegmatic blandness had begun to pass. They were becoming men now, individuals. Out of a dazed and superficial conformity sharp differences began to emerge. Characters reasserted itself and the five hundred began to discover what they were. Will Burrent stood in line for a look at himself in the barracks' mirror. When his turn came he saw the reflection of a thin-faced, narrow- nosed, pleasant-looking young man with straight brown hair. The young man had a resolute, honest, unexceptional face, unmarked by any strong passion. Burrent turned away disappointed. It was the face of a stranger. Examining himself more closely he could find no scars or anything else to distinguish his body from a thousand other bodies. His hands were uncallest. He was wiry rather than muscular. He wondered what sort of work he had done on earth. Murder? He frowned. He wasn't ready to accept that. A man tapped him on the shoulder. How you feelin'? Burrent turned and saw a large, thick-shouldered, red-haired man standing beside him. Pretty good, Burrent said. You were in line behind me, weren't you? That's right. Number 401. Names Dennis Foren. Burrent introduced himself. Your crime? Foren asked. Murder? Foren nodded, looking impressed. Me? I'm a forger. Wouldn't think it to look at my hands. He held out two massive paws covered with sparse red hair. But the skills there, my hands remembered before any other part of me. On the ship I sat in my cell and looked at my hands. They itched. They wanted to be off and doing things, but the rest of me couldn't remember what. What did you do? Burrent asked. I closed my eyes and let my hands take over, Foren said. First thing I knew they were up and picking the lock of the cell. He held up his huge hands and looked at them admiringly. Clever little devils. Picking the lock? Burrent asked. But I thought you were a forger. Well, now, Foren said. Forgery was my main line, but a pair of skilled hands can do almost anything. I suspect that I was only caught for forgery. But I might also have been a safe man. My hands know too much for just a forger. You've found out more about yourself than I have, Burrent said. All I have to start with is a dream. Well, that's a start, Foren said. There must be ways of finding out more. The important thing is we're on Omega. Agreed, Burrent said sourly. Nothing wrong with that, Foren said. Didn't you hear what the man said? This is our planet. With an average life expectancy of three Earth years, Burrent reminded him. That's probably just scare talk, Foren said. I wouldn't believe stuff like that from a guard. The big thing is we have our own planet. You heard what they said. Earth rejects us. Nova Earth. Food needs her. We've our own planet here. A whole planet, Burrent, we're free. Another man said, that's right, friend. He was small, fortified, and ingratiatingly friendly. My name is Joe, he told them. Actually, the name is Joa. But I prefer the archaic form with its flavor of more gracious times. Gentlemen, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation and I agree most heartily with our red-haired friend. Consider the possibilities. Earth has cast us aside. Excellent. We are better off without her. We are all equal here, free men in a free society. No uniforms, no guards, no soldiers. Just repentant former criminals who want to live in peace. What did they get you for? Burrent asked. They said I was a credit thief, Joe said. I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember what a credit thief is, but perhaps it'll come back to me. Maybe the authorities have some sort of memory retraining system, Burrent said. Authorities, Joe said indignantly. What do you mean authorities? This is our planet. We're all equal here. By definition there can't be any authorities. No, friends, we left all that nonsense behind on Earth. Here we— He stopped abruptly. The barracks door had opened and a man walked in. He was evidently an older resident of Omega since he lacked the gray prison uniform. He was fat and dressed in garish yellow and blue clothing. On a belt around his ample waist he carried a holstered pistol and a knife. He stood just inside the doorway, his hands on his hips glaring at the new arrivals. Well, he said, Don't you new men recognize a Quastor? Stand up! None of the men moved. The Quastor's face went scarlet. I guess I'll have to teach you a little respect. Even before he had taken his weapon from its holster the new arrivals had scrambled to their feet. The Quastor looked at them with a faintly regretful air and pushed the weapon back in its holster. The first thing you men better learn, the Quastor said, is your status on Omega. Your status is nowhere. Your pions. And that means you're nothing. He waited a moment and then said, Now, pay attention, pions. You are about to be instructed in your duties. Chapter 3 The first thing you new men should understand, the Quastor said, Is just exactly what you are. That's very important and I'll tell you what you are. Your pions. You're the lowest of the low. Your status list. There's nothing lower except mutants and they aren't really human. Any questions? The Quastor waited. When there were no questions he said, I've defined what you are. From that we'll proceed to a basic understanding of what everybody else on Omega is. First of all, everybody is more important than you. But some are more important than others. Next above you in rank is the resident who hardly counts for more than any of you and then there's the free citizen. He wears a gray finger ring of status and his clothes are black. He isn't important either but he's much more important than you. With luck some of you may become free citizens. Next are the privileged classes. All distinguished by various recognition symbols according to rank such as the golden earrings for example of the haji class. Eventually you'll learn all the marks and prerogatives of the various ranks and degrees. I might also mention the priests. Even though they're not of privileged rank they're granted certain immunities and rights. Have I made myself clear? Everyone in the barracks mumbled a scent. The quay store continued. Now we come to the subject of deportment when meeting any one of superior rank. As peons you are obliged to greet a free citizen by his full title in a respectful manner. With privileged ranks such as haji's you speak only when spoken to and then you stand with eyes downcast and hands clasped in front of you. You do not leave the presence of a privileged citizen until permission has been granted. You do not sit in his company under any circumstances. Understood? There is much more to be learned. My office of quay store for example comes under the classification of free citizen but carries certain of the prerogatives of privilege. The quay store glared at the men to make sure they understood. This barracks is your temporary home. I have drawn up a chart to show which men sweep which wash and so forth. You may question me at any time but foolish or impertinent questions can be punished by mutilation or death. Just remember that you are the lowest of the low. If you bear that in mind you might be able to stay alive. The quay store stood in silence for a few moments. Then he said, over the next few days you'll all be given various assignments. Some of you will go to the germanium mines, some to the fishing fleet, some will be apprenticed to various trades. In the meantime you're free to look around tetrahide. When the men looked blank the quay store explained, Tetrahide is the name of the city you're in. It's the largest city on Omega, he thought for a moment. In fact, it's the only city on Omega. What does the name Tetrahide mean? Joe asked. How should I know? The quay store said, scowling. I suppose it's one of those old birth names the screnners are always coming up with. Anyhow, just watch your step when you enter it. Why? Berent asked. The quay store grinned. That, Peon, is something you'll have to find out for yourself. He turned and strode from the barracks. When he had gone Berent went to the window. From it he could see a deserted square and beyond the streets of tetrahide. You thinking of going out there? Joe asked. Certainly I am, Berent said. Coming with me? The little credit thief shook his head. I don't think it's safe. Forin, how about you? I don't like it either, Forin said. Might be better to stay around the barracks for a while. That's ridiculous, Berent said. It's our city now, isn't anyone coming with me? Looking uncomfortable, Forin hunched his big shoulders and shook his head. Joe shrugged and lay back on his cot. The rest of the new men didn't even look up. Very well, Berent said. I'll give you a full report later. He waited a moment longer in case someone changed his mind then went out the door. The city of tetrahide was a collection of buildings sprawled along a narrow peninsula which jutted into a sluggish gray sea. The peninsula's landward side was contained by a high stone wall pierced with gates and guarded by sentries. Its largest building was the arena, used once a year for the games. Near the arena was a small cluster of government buildings. Berent walked along the narrow streets, staring around him trying to get some idea of what his new home was like. The winding unpaved roads and dark weather-beaten houses stirred an elusive tag end of memory in him. He had seen a place like this on earth but he couldn't remember anything about it. The recollection was as tantalizing as an itch but he couldn't locate its source. Past the arena he came into the main business district of tetrahide. Fascinated he read the store signs. Unlicensed doctor, abortions performed while you wait. Further on, disbarred lawyer, political pull. This seemed vaguely wrong to Berent. He walked further past stores advertising stolen goods past a little shop that announced mind readings. Full staff of screnning mutants, your past on earth revealed. Berent was tempted to go in but he remembered that he hadn't any money and Omega seemed like the sort of place that put a high value on money. He turned down a side street, walked by several restaurants and came to a large building called the Poison Institute. Easy terms, up to three years to pay, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Next door to it was the Assassin's Guild, local 452. On the basis of the indoctrination talk on the prison ship Berent had expected Omega to be dedicated to the rehabilitation of criminals. To judge by the store signs this simply wasn't so or if it was rehabilitation took some very strange forms. He walked on more slowly, deep in thought. Then he noticed that people were moving out of his way. They glanced at him and ducked into doorways and stores. An elderly woman took one look at him and ran. What was wrong? Could it be his prison uniform? No, the people of Omega had seen many of those. But was it then? The street was almost deserted. A shopkeeper near him was heredly swinging steel shutters over his display of fencing equipment. What's the matter? Berent asked him. What's going on? Are you out of your head? The shopkeeper said. It's landing day. I beg your pardon? Landing day, the shopkeeper said. The day the prison ship landed, get back to your barracks, you idiot! He slammed the last steel shutter into place and locked it. Berent felt a sudden cold touch of fear. Something was very wrong. He had better get back in a hurry. It had been stupid of him not to find out more about Omega's customs before. Three men were walking down the street toward him. They were well dressed and each wore the small golden haji earring in his left ear. All three men carried sidearms. Berent started to walk away from them. One of the men shouted, Stop, peon! Berent saw that the man's hand was dangling near his gun. He stopped and said, What's the matter? It's landing day, the man said. He looked at his friends. Well, who gets them first? We'll choose. Here's a coin. No, a show of fingers. Ready? One, two, three. He's mine, said the haji on the left. His friends moved back as he drew his sidearm. Wait, Berent called out. What are you doing? I'm going to shoot you, the man said. But why? The man smiled. Because it's a haji privilege. On every landing day we have the right to shoot down any new peon who leaves his barracks area. But I wasn't told. Of course not, the man said. If you knew men were told, none of you would leave your barracks on landing day and that would spoil all the fun. He took aim. Berent reacted instantaneously. He threw himself to the ground as the haji fired. Heard a hiss and saw a jagged heat burn score the brick building next to which he had been standing. My turn now, one of the men said. Sorry, old man, I believe it's mine. Seniority, dear friend, has its privileges. Stand clear. Before the next man could take aim, Berent was on his feet and running. The sharply winding street protected him for the moment but he could hear the sounds of his pursuers behind him. They were running at an easy stride, almost a fast walk as if they were completely sure of their prey. Berent put on a burst of speed, turned down a side street and knew immediately he had made a mistake. He was facing a dead end. The haji's moving at an easy pace were coming up behind him. Berent looked wildly around. Storefronts here were all locked and shuttered. There was nowhere he could climb to, no place to hide. And then he saw an open door halfway down the block in the direction of his pursuers. He had run right by it. A sign protruding from the building above the doorway said, The Victim's Protective Society. That's for me, Berent thought. He sprinted for it, running almost under the noses of the startled haji's. A single gun blast scorched the ground under his heels. Then he had reached the doorway and flung himself inside. He scrambled to his feet. His pursuers had not followed him. He could still hear their voices in the street, amably arguing questions of precedence. Berent realized he had entered some sort of sanctuary. He was in a large, brightly lighted room. Several ragged men were sitting on a bench near the door, laughing at a private joke. A little further down a dark-haired girl sat and watched Berent with wide, unblinking green eyes. At the far end of the room was a desk with a man sitting behind it. The man beckoned to Berent. He walked up to the desk. The man behind it was short and bespectacled. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Berent to speak. This is the Victim's Protective Society? Berent asked. Quite correct, sir, the man said. I am Randolph Friendlier, president of this non-profit organization. Could I be of service? You certainly could, Berent said. I'm practically a victim. I knew that just by looking at you, Friendlier said, smiling warmly. You have a certain victim look, a mixture of fear and uncertainty, with just a suggestion of vulnerability thrown in. It's quite unmistakable. That's very interesting, Berent said, glancing toward the door and wondering how long his sanctuary would be respected. Mr. Friendlier, I'm not a member of your organization. That doesn't matter, Friendlier said. Membership in our group is necessarily spontaneous. One joins when the occasion arises. Our intention is to protect the inalienable rights of all victims. Yes, sir. Well, there are three men outside trying to kill me. I see, Mr. Friendlier said. He opened a drawer and took out a large book. He flipped through it quickly and found the reference he wanted. Tell me, did you ascertain the status of these men? I believe they were Hodges, Berent said. Each of them had a little gold earring in his left ear. Quite right, Mr. Friendlier said, and today is landing day. You came off the ship that landed today and have been classified as a peon. Is that correct? Yes, it is, Berent said. Then I'm happy to say that everything is in order. The landing day hunt ends at sundown. You can leave here with the knowledge that everything is correct and that your rights are in no way being violated. Leave here? After sundown, you mean? Mr. Friendlier shook his head and smiled sadly. I'm afraid not. According to the law, you must leave here at once. But they'll kill me. That's very true, Friendlier said. Unfortunately, it can't be helped. A victim, by definition, is one who is to be killed. I thought this was a protective organization. It is, but we protect rights, not victims. Your rights are not being violated. The Hodges have the privilege of killing you on landing day at any time before sundown if you are not in your barracks area. You, I might add, have the right to kill anyone who tries to kill you. I don't have a weapon, Berent said. Victims never do, Friendlier said. It makes all the difference, doesn't it? But weapon or not, I'm afraid you'll have to leave now. Berent could still hear the Hodges' lazy voices in the street. He asked, have you a rear door? Sorry. Then I'll simply not leave. Still smiling, Mr. Friendlier opened a drawer and took out a gun. He pointed it at Berent and said, you really must leave. You can take your chances with the Hodges or you can die right here with no chance at all. Lend me your gun, Berent said. It isn't allowed, Friendlier told him. Can't have victims running around with weapons, you know, it would upset things. He clicked off the safety. Are you leaving? Berent calculated his chances of diving across the desk for the gun and decided he would never make it. He turned and walked slowly to the door. The ragged men were still laughing together. The dark-haired girl had risen from the bench and was standing near the doorway. As he came close to her, Berent noticed that she was very lovely. He wondered what crime had dictated her expulsion from earth. As he passed her, he felt something hard pressed into his ribs. He reached for it and found he was holding a small, efficient-looking gun. Look! the girl said. And I hope you know how to use it. Berent nodded his thanks. He wasn't sure he knew how, but he was going to find out. Chapter 4 The street was deserted except for the three Hodges who stood about twenty yards away conversing quietly. As Berent came through the doorway, two of the men moved back. The third, his side-arm negligently lowered, stepped forward. He saw that Berent was armed. He quickly brought his gun into firing position. Berent flung himself to the ground and pressed the trigger of his unfamiliar weapon. He felt it vibrate in his hand and saw the Hodges' head and shoulders turn black and begin to crumble. Before he could take aim at the other men, Berent's gun was wrenched violently from his hand. The Hodges' dying shot had creased the end of the muzzle. Desperately Berent dived for the gun knowing he could never reach it in time. His skin pricked in expectation of the killing shot. He rolled to his gun, still miraculously alive, and took aim at the nearest Hodgy. Just in time he checked himself from firing. The Hodges had holstered their weapons. One of them was saying, Poor old Draken, he simply could not learn to take quick aim. Lack of practice, the other man said. Draken never spent much time on the firing range. Well, if you ask me, it's a good object lesson. One mustn't get out of practice. And, the other man said, one mustn't underestimate even a peon. He looked at Berent. Nice shooting, fellow. Yes, very nice indeed, the other man said. It's difficult to fire a handgun accurately while in motion. Berent got to his feet shakily, still holding the girl's weapon, prepared to fire at the first suspicious movement from the Hodges. But they weren't moving suspiciously. They seemed to regard the entire incident as closed. What happens now? Berent asked. Nothing, one of the Hodges said. On landing day one kill is all that any man or hunting party is allowed. After that you're out of the hunt. It's really a very unimportant holiday, the other man said. Not like the games or the lottery. All that remains for you to do, the first man said, is to go to the registration office and collect your inheritance. My what? Your inheritance, the Hodges said patiently. You're entitled to the entire estate of your victim. In Draken's case, I'm sorry to say, it doesn't amount to much. He never was a good businessman, the other said sadly. Still, it'll give you a little something to start life with. And since you've made an authorized kill, even though a highly unusual one, you move upward in status. You become a free citizen. People had come back into the streets and shopkeepers were unlocking their steel shutters. A truck marked Body Disposal Unit 5 drove up and four uniformed men took away Draken's body. The normal life of tetrahyde had begun again. This, more than any assurances from the Hodges, told Berent that the moment for murder was over. He put the girl's weapon in his pocket. The registration office is over this way, one of the Hodges told him. We'll act as your witnesses. Berent still had only a limited understanding of the situation, but since things were suddenly going his way, he decided to accept whatever happened without question. There would be plenty of time later to find out where he stood. Accompanied by the Hodges, he went to the registration office on Gunpoint Square. There, a bored clerk heard the entire story, produced Draken's business papers and pasted Berent's name over Draken's. Berent noticed that several other names had been pasted over. There seemed to be a fast turnover of businesses in tetrahyde. He found that he was now the owner of an antidote shop at Three Blazer Boulevard. The business papers also officially recognized Berent's new rank as a free citizen. The clerk gave him a ring of status made of gunmetal and advised him to change into citizens' clothing as soon as possible if he wished to avoid unpleasant incidents. Outside the Hodges wished him luck. Berent decided to see what his new business was like. Blazer Boulevard was a short alley running between two streets. Near the middle of it was a storefront with a sign which read, Antidote Shop. Beneath that it read, specifics for every poison, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral. Carry our handy do-it-yourself survival kit. Twenty-three antidotes in one pocket-sized container. Berent opened the door and went in. Behind a low counter he saw a ceiling-high shelf filled with labeled bottles, cans, and cartons, and square-glass jaws containing odd bits of leaves, twigs, and fungus. In the back corner was a small shelf of books with titles like Quick Diagnosis in Acute Poisoning Cases, the Arsenic Family, and the Perbutations of Henbane. It was quite obvious that poisoning played a large part in the daily life of Omega. Here was a store, and presumably there were others and all purpose was to dispense antidotes. Berent thought about this and decided that he had inherited a strange but honorable business. He would study the books and find out how an antidote shop was run. The store had a back apartment with a living-room, bedroom, and kitchen. In one of the closets Berent found a badly-made suit of Citizen Black into which he changed. He took the girl's weapon from the pocket of his prison ship uniform, weighed it in his hand for a moment, then put it into a pocket of his new suit. He left the store and found his way back to the victim's protective society. The door was still open and the three ragged men were still sitting on the bench. They weren't laughing now. Their long waits seemed to have tired them. At the other end of the room Mr. Friendlier was seated behind his desk, reading through a thick pile of papers. There was no sign of the girl. Berent walked to the desk and Friendlier stood up to greet him. My congratulations, Friendlier said. Dear fellow, my very warmest congratulations. That was a splendid bit of shooting and in motion too. Thank you, Berent said. The reason I came back here. I know why, Friendlier said. You wish to be advised of your rights and obligations as a free citizen. It could be more natural. If you take a seat on that bench, I'll be with you in. I didn't come here for that, Berent said. I want to find out about my rights and obligations, of course, but right now I want to find that girl. Girl? She was sitting on the bench when I came in. She was the one who gave me the gun. Mr. Friendlier looked astonished. Citizen, you must be laboring under misapprehension. There has been no woman in this office all day. She was sitting on the bench near those three men, a very attractive dark-haired girl. You must have noticed her. I would certainly have noticed her if she had been here, Friendlier said, winking. But as I said before, no woman has entered these premises today. Berent glared at him and pulled the gun out of his pocket. In that case, how did I get this? I lent it to you, Friendlier said. I'm glad you were able to use it successfully, but now I would appreciate its return. You're lying, Berent said, taking a firm grip on the weapon. Let's ask those men. He walked over to the bench with Friendlier close behind him. He caught the attention of the man who had been sitting nearest the girl and asked him, where did the girl go? The man lifted a sullen, unshaven face and said, What girl are you talking about, citizen? The one who was sitting right here. I didn't notice nobody. Rafiel, you see a female on this bench? Not me, Rafiel said, and I've been sitting here continuous since ten this morning. I didn't see her neither, the third man said, and I got sharp eyes. Berent turned back to Friendlier. Why are you lying to me? I've told you the simple truth, Friendlier said. There has been no girl in here all day. I lent you the gun, as is my privilege as President of the Victims Protective Society. I would now appreciate its return. No, Berent said. I'm keeping the gun until I find the girl. That might not be wise, Friendlier said. Pete hastily added, a fevery I mean was not condoned under these circumstances. I'll take my chances on that, Berent said. He turned and left the Victims Protective Society. End of Part One of the Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley. Part Two of the Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Part Two of the Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley. Chapter Five Berent needed time to recuperate from his violent entry into Omega in life. Starting from the helpless state of a newborn, he had moved through murder to the ownership of an antidote shop. From a forgotten past on a planet called Earth, he had been catapulted into a dubious present in a world full of criminals. He had gotten a glimpse of a complex class structure and a hint of an institutionalized program of murder. He had discovered in himself a certain measure of self-reliance and a surprising quickness with a gun. He knew there was a great deal more to find out about Omega, Earth, and himself. He hoped he would live long enough to make the necessary discoveries. First things first. He had to earn a living. To do so, he had to find out about poisons and antidotes. He moved into the apartment in back of his store and began reading the books left by the late Haji, Draken. The literature on poisons was fascinating. There were the vegetable poisons known on Earth, such as Hellebore, Cedar Ward, Deadly Nightshade, and the U-Tree. He learned about the action of hemlock, its preliminary intoxication, and its final convulsions. There was prosic acid poisoning from almonds and digitalin poisoning from purple foxglove. There was the awesome efficiency of wolfspain with its deadly store of aconite. There were the fungi, such as the Amanita toadstools and fly agaric, not to mention the purely omegan vegetable poisons like redcup, flowering lily, and amortalis. But the vegetable poisons, although dismayingly numerous, were only one part of his studies. He had to consider the animals of Earth, sea, and air, the several species of deadly spiders, the snakes, scorpions, and giant wasps. There was an imposing array of metallic poisons, such as arsenic, mercury, and bismuth. There were the commoner corrosives, nitric, hydrochloric, phosphoric, and sulfuric acid. And there were the poisons distilled or extracted from various sources, among which were strychnine, formic acid, hyociamine, and belladonna. Each of the poisons had one or more antidotes listed, but those complicated, cautiously worded formulas barant suspected were frequently unsuccessful. To make matters more difficult, the efficacy of an antidote seemed to depend upon a correct diagnosis of the poisoning agent, and too often the symptoms produced by one poison resembled those of another. Barant pondered these problems while he studied his books. In the meantime, with considerable nervousness, he served his first customers. He found that many of his fears were ungrounded, in spite of the dozens of lethal substances recommended by the poison institute. Most poisoners stuck single-mindedly to arsenic or strychnine. They were cheap, sure, and very painful. Prussic acid had a really discernible odor. Mercury was difficult to introduce into the system, and the corrosives, although gratifyingly spectacular, were dangerous to use. Wolfbane and fly agaric were excellent, of course. Deadly nightshade could not be discounted, and the Amanita Toadstool had its own macabre charm. But these were the poisons of an older, more leisurely age. The impatient younger generation, and especially the women who made up nearly 90% of the poisoners on Omega, were satisfied with plain arsenic or strychnine as the occasion or opportunity demanded. Omega women were conservatives. They simply weren't interested in the never-ending arguments of the poisoners' art. Means didn't interest them. Only ends, as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Omega women were noted for their common sense. Although the eager theoreticians at the poison institute tried to sell dubious mixtures of contact poison or three-day mold, and worked hard to put across complex haywire schemes involving wasps, concealed needles, and double glasses, they found few takers among women. All arsenic and fast-acting strychnine continued to be the mainstays of the poison trade. This quite naturally simplified Berent's work. His remedies, immediate regurgitation, lavage, and neutralizing agent were easy enough to master. He encountered some difficulty with men who refused to believe they had been poisoned by anything so commonplace as arsenic or strychnine. For those cases Berent prescribed a variety of roots, herbs, twigs, leaves, and a minute homeopathic dose of poison. But he invariably proceeded these with regurgitation, lavage, and a neutralizing agent. After he was settled, Berent received a visit from Dennis Foren and Joe. Foren had a temporary job on the docks unloading fishing boats. Joe had organized a nightly pokera game among the government workers of Tetrahyde. Neither man had moved much in status. With no kills to their credit, they had progressed only as far as second-class resident. They were nervous about meeting socially with a free citizen, but Berent put them at ease. They were the only friends he had on Omega, and he had no intention of losing them over a question of social position. Berent was unable to learn very much from them about the laws and customs of Tetrahyde. Even Joe hadn't been able to find out anything definite from his friends in government service. On Omega, the law was kept secret. Older residents used their knowledge of the law to enforce their rule over the newcomers. This system was condoned and reinforced by the doctrine of the inequality of all men, which lay at the heart of the Omega legal system. Through planned inequality and enforced ignorance, power and status remained in the hands of the older residents. Of course, all social movement upward couldn't be stopped, but it could be retarded, discouraged, and made exceedingly dangerous. The way one encountered the laws and customs of Omega was through a risky process of trial and error. Although the antidote shop took up most of his time, Berent persisted in his efforts to locate the girl. He was unable to find a hint that she even existed. He became friendly with the shopkeepers on either side of him. One of them, Desmond Harrisburg, was a jaunty, mustachioed man who operated a food store. It was a mundane and slightly ridiculous line of work, but as Harrisburg explained, even criminals must eat. And this necessitated farmers, processors, packages, and food stores. Harrisburg contended that his business was in no way inferior to the more indigenous Omega industries centered around violent death. Besides, Harrisburg's wife's uncle was a minister of public works. Through him, Harrisburg expected to receive a murder certificate. With this all-important document, he could make his six-months kill and move upward to the status of privileged citizen. Berent nodded his agreement, but he wondered if Harrisburg's wife, a thin, restless woman, wouldn't decide to poison him first. She appeared to be dissatisfied with her husband, but his divorce was forbidden on Omega. His other neighbor, Tim Rand, was a lanky, cheerful man in his early forties. He had a heat scar which ran from just beneath his left ear, down almost to the corner of his mouth, a souvenir given him by a status-seeking hopeful. The hopeful had picked the wrong man. Tim Rand owned a weapons shop, practiced constantly, and always carried the articles of his trade with him. According to witnesses, he had performed the counter-kill in exemplary fashion. Tim's dream was to become a member of the Assassin's Guild. His application was on file with that ancient and austere organization, and he had a chance of being accepted within the month. Berent bought a sidearm from him. On Ren's advice, he chose a Jameson-type needle-beam. It was faster and more accurate than any projectile weapon, and it transmitted the same shock power as a heavy-caliber bullet. To be sure, it hadn't the spread of heat weapons such as the Hodges used, which could kill within six inches of their target, but wide-range beamers encouraged inaccuracy. They were messy, careless weapons, which reinforced careless traits. Anyone could fire a heat gun, but to use a needle-beam effectively, you had to practice constantly, and practice paid off. That needle-beam man was more than a match for any two wide-beam gunmen. Berent took this advice to heart, coming as it did from an apprentice assassin and the owner of a weapons shop. He put in long hours on Ren's cellar firing range, sharpening his reflexes, getting used to the quick-throw holster. There was a lot to do and a tremendous amount to learn, just in order to survive. Berent didn't mind hard work as long as it was for a worthwhile goal. He hoped things would stay quiet for a while, so he could catch up to the older inhabitants. But things never stayed quiet in Omega. One day, late in the afternoon as he was closing up, Berent received an unusual-looking collar. He was a man in his fifties, heavy-set with a stern, swarthy face. He wore a red ankle-length robe and sandals. Around his waist was a rawhide belt from which dangled a small black book and a red-handled dagger. There was an air of unusual force and authority about him. Berent was unable to tell his status. Berent said, I was just closing up, sir, but if there's anything you wish to buy. I did not come here to buy, the caller said. He permitted himself a faint smile. I came here to sell. Sell? I am a priest, the man said. You are a newcomer to my district. I haven't noticed you at my services. I hadn't known anything about... The priest held up his hand. Under both the sacred and the profane law, ignorance is no excuse for non-performance of one's duties. Indeed, ignorance can be punished as an act of willful neglect based upon the total personal responsibility act of twenty-three, to say nothing of the lesser codicell. He smiled again. However, there is no question of chastisement for you as yet. I'm glad to hear that, sir, Berent said. Uncle is the proper form of address, the priest said. I am Uncle Ingamar, and I have come to tell you about the Orthodox religion of Omega, which is the worship of that pure and transcendent spirit of evil, which is our inspiration and our comfort. Berent said. I'll be very happy to hear about the religion of the evil, Uncle. Shall we go into the living room? By all means, nephew, the priest said, and followed Berent to the apartment in back of the store. Chapter 6 Evil, the priest said after he had settled comfortably into Berent's best chair, is that force within us which inspires men to acts of strength and endurance. The worship of evil is essentially the worship of oneself and therefore the only true worship. The self which one worships is the ideal social being, the man content in his niche in society, yet ready to grasp any opportunity for advancement, the man who meets death with dignity, who kills without the demeaning vice of pity. Evil is cruel, since it is a true reflection of the uncaring and insensate universe. Evil is eternal and unchanging, although it comes to us in the many forms of protein life. Would you care for a little wine, Uncle? Berent asked. Thank you, that's very thoughtful, Uncle Ingamar said. How is business? Fair, a little slow this week. People don't take the same interest in poisoning, the priest said, mootily sipping his drink, not like when I was a boy, newly unfrocked and shipped out from earth. However, I was speaking to you about evil. Yes, Uncle? We worship evil, Uncle Ingamar said, in the incarnate form of the black one, that horned and horrid specter of our days and nights. In the black one we find the seven cardinal sins, the forty felonies and the one hundred and one misdemeanors. There is no crime that the black one has not performed faultlessly, as befits his nature. Therefore we imperfect beings model ourselves upon his perfections, and sometimes the black one rewards us by appearing before us in the awful beauty of his fiery flesh. Yes, nephew, I have actually been privileged to see him. Two years ago he appeared at the conclusion of the games and he also appeared the year before that. The priest brooded for a moment over the divine appearance. Then he said, since we recognize in the state man's highest potential for evil, we also worship the state as a superhuman though less than divine creation. Brent nodded. He was having a difficult time staying awake. Uncle Ingamar's low monotonous voice lecturing about so commonplace thing as evil had a sapaphoric effect on him. He struggled to keep his eyes open. One might well ask, Uncle Ingamar droned on, if evil is the highest attainment of the nature of man, why then did the black one allow any good to exist in the universe? The problem of good has bothered the unenlightened for ages. I will now answer it for you. Yes, Uncle? Brent said, surreptitiously pinching himself on the inside of the thigh in an effort to stay awake. But first, Uncle Ingamar said, let us define our terms. Let us examine the nature of good. Let us boldly and fearlessly stare our great opponent in the face and discover the true liniments of his features. Yes, Brent said, wondering if he should open a window. His eyes felt incredibly heavy. He rubbed them hard and tried to pay attention. Good is a state of illusion, said Uncle Ingamar in his even monotonous tone, which ascribes to man the non-existent attributes of altruism, humility, and piety. How can we recognize good as being an illusion? Because there is only man and the black one in the universe, and to worship the black one is to worship the ultimate expression of oneself. Thus, since we have proven good to be an illusion, we necessarily recognize its attributes as non-existent. Understood? Brent didn't answer. Do you understand? the priest asked more sharply. Eh? Brent said. He had been dozing with his eyes open. He forced himself awake and managed to say, Yes, Uncle, I understand. Excellent. Understanding that, we ask, why did the black one allow even the illusion of good to exist in an evil universe? And the answer is found in the law of necessary opposites. For evil could not be recognized as such without something to contrast it with. The best contrast is an opposite, and the opposite of evil is good. The priest smiled triumphantly. It's so simple and clear-cut, isn't it? It certainly is, Uncle, Brent said. Would you like a little more wine? Just the tiniest drop, the priest said. He talked to Brent for another ten minutes about the natural and charming evil inherent in the beasts of the field and forest and counseled Brent to pattern his behavior on those simple-minded creatures. At last he rose to leave. I'm very glad we could have this little chat, the priest said, warmly, shaking Brent's hand. Can I count on your appearance at our Monday night services? Services? Of course, Uncle Ingmar said. Every Monday night, at midnight, we hold black mass at the wee Covenant Kirkwood Drive. After services, the lady's auxiliary usually puts out a snack and we have community dancing and choir singing. It's all very jolly. He smiled broadly. You see, the worship of evil can be fun. Sure it can, Brent said. I'll be there, Uncle. He showed the priest to the door. After locking up, he thought carefully about what Uncle Ingmar had said. No doubt about it. Attendance at services was necessary. Compulsory, in fact. He just hoped that the black mass wouldn't be as infernally dull as Ingmar's exposition of evil. That was Friday. Brent was kept busy over the next two days. He received a shipment of homeopathic herbs and roots from his agent in the Blood Pit District. It took the better part of a day to sort and classify them, and another day to store them in the proper jars. On Monday, returning to his shop after lunch, Brent thought he saw the girl. He hurried after her but lost her in the crowd. When he got back to his store, Brent found that a letter had been slipped under his door. It was an invitation from his neighborhood dream shop. The letter read, Dear Citizen, we take this opportunity of welcoming you into the neighborhood and extending to you the services of what we believe to be the finest dream on Omega. All manner and type of dreams are available to you, and at a surprisingly low cost. We specialize in memory-resurrecting dreams of Earth. You can be assured that your neighborhood dream shop offers you only the finest in vicarious living. As a free citizen, you will surely wish to avail yourself of these services. May we hope that you do so within the week? The Proprietors. Brent put down the letter. He had no idea what a dream shop was or how the dreams were produced. He would have to find out. Even though the invitation was graciously worded, it had a preemptory tone to it. Past a doubt, a visit to a dream shop was one of the obligations of a free citizen. But, of course, an obligation could be a pleasure too. The dream shop sounded interesting, and a genuine memory-resurrection dream of Earth would be worth almost any price the Proprietors wished to ask. But that would have to wait. Tonight was black mass, and his attendance there was definitely required. Brent left his store at eleven o'clock in the evening. He wanted time for a stroll around Tetrahyde before going to the service which began at midnight. He started his walk with a definite sense of well-being. And yet, because of the irrational and unexpected nature of Omega, he almost died before reaching the wee coven on Kirkwood Drive. Chapter 7 It had turned into a hot, almost suffocatingly humid night when Brent began his walk. Not the faintest breath of air stirred along the darkened streets. Although he was wearing only a black mesh shirt, shorts, gun belt, and sandals, Brent felt as if he were wrapped in a thick blanket. Most of the people of Tetrahyde, except for those already at the coven's, had retired to the coolness of their cellars. The dark streets were nearly deserted. Brent walked on, more slowly. The few people he met were running to their homes. There was a sense of panic in that silent dogged sprint through heat which made walking difficult. Brent tried to find out what the matter was, but no one would stop. One old man shouted over his shoulder, Get off the street, idiot! Why? Brent asked him. The old man snarled something unintelligible and hurried on. Brent kept on walking, nervously fingering the butt of his needle-beam. Something was clearly wrong, but he had no idea what it was. His nearest shelter now was the wee coven about half a mile away. It seemed best to keep on moving in that direction, staying alert, waiting to see what was wrong. In a few minutes Brent was alone in a tightly shuttered city. He moved into the center of the street, loosened the needle-beam in its holster and prepared for attack from any side. Perhaps this was some special holiday like landing day. Perhaps free citizens were fair game tonight. Anything seemed possible on a planet like Omega. He thought he was ready for any possibility, but when the attack came it was from an unexpected quarter. A faint breeze stirred the stagnant air. It faded and returned, stronger this time, perceptibly cooling the hot streets. Wind rolled off the mountains of the interior and swept through the streets of tetrahide and Brent could feel the perspiration on his chest and back begin to dry. For a few minutes the climate of tetrahide was as pleasant as anything he could imagine. Then the temperature continued to fall. It dropped rapidly. Frigid air swept in from the distant mountain slopes and the temperature fell through the seventies into the sixties. This is ridiculous Brent thought to himself, I'd better get to the coven. He walked more rapidly while the temperature plummeted. It passed through the forties into the low thirties. The first glittering signs of frost appeared on the streets. It can't go much lower, Brent thought. But it could. An angry winter wind blew through the street and the temperature dropped into the twenties. Moisture in the air began forming into sleet. Chilled to the bone Brent ran down the empty streets and the wind rising to Gale Force pulled and tugged at him. The streets glittered with ice making the footing dangerous. He skidded and fell and had to run at a slower pace to keep his footing. And still the temperature dropped and the wind growled and snapped like an angry beast. He saw light through a heavily shuttered window. He stopped and pounded at the shutters, but no sound came from inside. He realized that the people of tetrahide never helped anyone. The more who died the more chance there was for the survivors. So Brent continued running on feet that felt like chunks of wood. The wind shrieked in his ear and hailstones the size of his fist pelted the ground. He was getting too tired to run. All he could do now was walk through a frozen white world and hope he would reach the wee coven. He walked for hours or for years. At one corner he passed the bodies of two men huddled against a wall and covered with frost. They had stopped running and had frozen to death. Brent forced himself to run again. A stitch in his side felt like a knife wound and the cold was creeping up his arms and down his legs. Soon the cold would reach his chest and that would be the end. A flurry of hailstones stunned him. Without conscious transition he found that he was lying on the icy ground and a monstrous wind was whirling away the tiny warmth his body was able to generate. At the far end of the block he could see the tiny red light of the coven. He crept toward it on hands and knees moving mechanically, not really expecting to get there. He crawled forever and the beckoning red light always remained the same distance from him. But he kept crawling and at last he reached the door of the coven. He pulled himself to his feet and turned the doorknob. The door was locked. He pounded feebly on the door. After a moment a panel slid back. He saw a man staring at him, then the panel slid shut. He waited for the door to open. It didn't open. Minutes passed and still it didn't open. What were they waiting for inside? What was wrong? Berent tried to pound on the door again, lost his balance and fell to the ground. He rolled over and looked despairingly at the locked door. Then he lost consciousness. When he came to Berent found himself lying on a couch. Two men were massaging his arms and legs and beneath him he could feel the warmth of heating pads. Peering anxiously at him was the broad, swarthy face of Uncle Ingemar. Feeling better now, Uncle Ingemar asked. I think so, Berent said. Why did you take so long opening the door? We almost didn't open it at all, the priest told him. It's against the law to aid strangers in distress. Since you hadn't as yet joined the coven, you were technically still a stranger. Then why did you let me in? My assistant noticed that we had an even number of worshipers. We require an odd number, preferably ending in three. Where the sacred and the profane laws are in conflict, the profane must yield. So we'd let you in despite the government ruling. It's a ridiculous ruling, Berent said. Not really. Like most of the laws on Omega it is designed to keep the population down. Omega is an extremely barren planet, you know. The constant arrival of new prisoners keeps swelling the population to the enormous disadvantage of the older inhabitants. Ways and means must be sought to dispose of the excess newcomers. It isn't fair, Berent said. You'll change your mind when you become an older inhabitant, Ingemar said. And by your tenacity I'm sure you'll become one. Maybe, Berent said. But what happened? The temperature must have dropped nearly a hundred degrees in fifteen minutes. A hundred and eight degrees, to be exact, Uncle Ingemar said. It's really very simple. Omega is a planet which revolves eccentrically around a double star system. Further instability, I'm told, comes from the planet's peculiar physical makeup. The placement of mountains and seas. The result is a uniformly and dramatically bad climate characterized by sudden violent temperature changes. The assistant, a small self-important fellow, said. It has been calculated that Omega is at the outer limits of the planets which can support human life without gross artificial aids. If the fluctuations between hot and cold were any more violent all human life here would be wiped out. It's the perfect punitive world, Uncle Ingemar said proudly. Experienced residents sense when a temperature change is about to take place and get indoors. It's hellish, Berent said at a loss for words. That describes it perfectly, the priest said. It is hellish, and therefore perfect for the worship of the black one. If you're feeling better now, citizen Berent, we shall proceed with services. Except for a touch of frostbite on his toes and fingers Berent was all right. He nodded and followed the priest and the worshipers into the main part of the coven. After what he had been through, the black mass was necessarily an anti-climax. In his warmly heated pew Berent drows through Uncle Ingemar's sermon on the necessary performance of everyday evil. The worship of evil, Uncle Ingemar said, should not be reserved solely for Monday nights. On the contrary, the knowledge and performance of evil should suffuse one's daily life. It was not given to everyone to be a great sinner, but no one should be discouraged by that. Little acts of badness performed over a lifetime accumulated into a sinful whole, most pleasing to the black one. No one should forget that some of the greatest sinners, even the demoniac saints themselves, often had humble beginnings. Did not Thrastis start as a humble shopkeeper, cheating his customers of a portion of rice? Who would have expected that simple man to develop into the red slayer of Thorndike Lane? And who could have imagined that Dr. Luen, son of a dockhand, would one day become the world's foremost authority on the practical applications of torture? Perseverance and piety had allowed those men to rise above their natural handicaps to a preeminent position at the right hand of the black one. And it proved, Uncle Ingemar said, that evil was the business of the poor as well as the rich. That ended the sermon. Berend awoke momentarily when the sacred symbols were brought out and displayed to the reverent congregation. A red-handled dagger and a plaster toad. Then he dozed again through the slow inscribing of the magical pentagon. At last the ceremony neared its end. The names of the interceding evil demons were read. Baal, Forkis, Bure, Marcosius, Astoroth, and Behemoth. A prayer was read to ward off the effects of good, and Uncle Ingemar apologized for not having a virgin to sacrifice on the red altar. Our funds were not sufficient, he said, for the purchase of a government-certified peon virgin. However, I am sure we will be able to perform the full ceremony next Monday. My assistant will now pass among you. The assistant carried around the black-rimmed collection plate. Like the other worshipers, Berend contributed generously. It seemed wise to do so. Uncle Ingemar was clearly annoyed at not having a virgin to sacrifice. If he became a little angrier, he might take it into his head to sacrifice one of the congregation, virgin or not. Berend didn't stay for the choir singing or the community dancing. When the evening worship was finished, he poked his head cautiously out of the door. The temperature had gone up to the seventies, and the frost was already melted from the ground. Berend shook hands with the priest and hurried home. Chapter 8 Berend had had enough of Omega's shocks and surprises. He stayed close to his store, worked at his business, and kept alert for trouble. He was beginning to develop the Omega look. A narrow, suspicious squint, a hand always near gun-butt, feet ready to sprint. Like the older inhabitants, he was acquiring a sixth sense for danger. At night, after the doors and windows were barred and the triplex alarm system had been set, Berend would lie on his bed and try to remember Earth. Probing into the misty recesses of his memory, he found tantalizing hints and traces and fragments of pictures. Here was a great highway curving toward the sun, a fragment of a huge multi-level city, a close-up view of a starship's curving hull. But the pictures were not continuous. They existed for the barest fraction of a second, then vanished. On Saturday, Berend spent the evening with Joe, Dennis Foren, and his neighbor, Tim Rend. Joe's Pokra had prospered, and he had been able to bribe his way to the status of free citizen. Foren was too blunt and straightforward for that. He had remained at the residency level. But Tim Rend promised to take the big forger as an assistant if the Assassin's Guild accepted his application. The evening started pleasantly enough, but it ended as usual with an argument about Earth. Now look, Joe said. We all know what Earth is like. It's a complex of gigantic floating cities. They're built on artificial islands in the various oceans. Now, the cities are on land, Berend said. On water, Joe said. The people of Earth have returned to the sea. Everyone has special oxygen adapters for breathing salt water. The land areas aren't even used anymore. The sea provides everything that— It isn't like that, Berend said. I remember huge cities, but they were all on land. Foren said, you're both wrong. What would Earth want with cities? She gave them up centuries ago. Earth is a landscaped park now. Everyone has his own home and several acres of land. All the forests and jungles have been allowed to grow back. People live with nature instead of trying to conquer it. Isn't that right, Tim? Almost, but not quite, Tim Rend said. There are still cities, but they're underground. Tremendous underground factories and production areas. The rest is like Foren said. There aren't any more factories, Foren insisted stubbornly. There's no need of them. Any goods which a man requires can be produced by thought control. I'm telling you, Joe said, I can remember the floating cities. I used to live in the Neemwe sector on the island of Pasifay. You think that proves anything? Rend asked. I remember that I worked on the 18th underground level of Nueva, Chicago. My work quota was 20 days a year. The rest of the time I spent outdoors in the forests. Foren said, that's wrong, Tim. There aren't any underground levels. I can remember distinctly that my father was a controller, third class. Our family used to trek several hundred miles every year. When we needed something, my father would think it. And there it'd be. He promised to teach me how, but I guess he never did. Berent said, well, a couple of us are certainly having false recall. That's certain, Joe said. But the question is, which of us is right? We'll never find out, Rend said, unless we can return to earth. That ended the discussion. Toward the end of the week Berent received another invitation from the dream shop, more strongly worded than the first. He decided to discharge the obligation that evening. He checked the temperature and found that it had risen into the high nineties. Wiser now, in omegan ways, he packed a small satchel full of cold weather clothing and started out. The dream shop was located in the Exclusive Deaths Row section. Berent went in and found himself in a small, sumptuously furnished waiting room. A sleek young man behind a polished desk gave him an artificial smile. Could I be of service? the young man asked. My name is Gnomus J. Arcdragan, assistant manager in charge of Nightside Dreams. I'd like to know something about what happens, Berent said. How one gets dreams. What kind of dreams? The all that sort of thing. Of course, Arcdragan said, our service is easily explained. Citizen Berent will Berent. Arcdragan nodded and checked a name from a list in front of him. He looked up and said, our dreams are produced by the action of drugs upon the brain and the central nervous system. There are many drugs which produce the desired effect. Among the most useful are heroin, morphine, opium, cocoa, hemp, and peyote. All those are earth products. Found only on Omega are Black Slipper, Nace, Manassee, Trinarcotene, J. Dallas, and the various products of the Carmoyd Group. Any and all of these are dream inducers. I see, Berent said, then you sell drugs. Not at all, Arcdragan said. Nothing so simple, nothing so crude. In ancient times on earth man administered drugs to themselves. The dreams which resulted were necessarily random in nature. You never knew what you would dream about or for how long. You never knew if you would have a dream or a nightmare, a horror, or a delight. This uncertainty has been removed from the modern dream shop. Nowadays our drugs are carefully measured, mixed, and mirrored for each individual. There is an absolute precision in dream making, ranging from the nirvana-like calm of Black Slipper through the multicolored hallucinations of peyote and Trinarcotene to the sexual fantasies induced by Nace and morphine at last to the memory-resurrecting dreams of the Carmoyd Group. It's the memory-resurrecting dreams I'm interested in, Berent said. Arcdragan frowned. I wouldn't recommend it for a first visit. Why not? Dreams of earth are apt to be more unsettling than any imaginary productions. It's usually advisable to build up a tolerance for them. I would advise a nice little sexual fantasy for your first visit. I have a special sale on sexual fantasies this week. Berent shook his head. I think I'd prefer the real thing. You wouldn't, the assistant manager said with a knowing smile. Believe me, once one becomes accustomed to vicarious sex experiences, the real thing is pallid by comparison. Not interested, Berent said. What I want is a dream about earth. You haven't built up a tolerance, Arcdragan said. You aren't even addicted. Is addiction necessary? It's important, Arcdragan told him, as well as being inescapable. All our drugs are habit-forming as the law requires. You see, to really appreciate a drug, you must build up a need for it. It heightens pleasure enormously to say nothing of the increase in toleration. That's why I suggest that you begin with, I want a dream about earth, Berent said. Very well, Arcdragan said grudgingly, but we will not be responsible for any traumas which accrue. He led Berent into a long passageway. It was lined with doors, and behind some of them Berent could hear dull moans and gasps of pleasure. Experiencers, Arcdragan said, without further explanation. He took Berent to an open room near the end of the corridor. Within sat a cheerful-looking bearded man in a white coat reading a book. Good evening, Dr. Wayne, Arcdragan said. This is Citizen Berent. First visit. He insists upon an earth dream. Arcdragan turned and left. Well, the doctor said, I guess we can manage that. He put down his book. Just lie down over there, Citizen Berent. In the center of the room was a long adjustable table. Above it hung a complicated-looking instrument. At the end of the room were glass-sided cabinets filled with square jars. They reminded Berent of his antidotes. He lay down. Dr. Wayne put him through a general examination. Then a specific check for suggestibility, hypnotic index, reactions to the eleven basic drug groups, and susceptibility to titanic and epileptic seizures. He jotted down his results on a pad, checked his figures, went to a cabinet, and began mixing drugs. Is this likely to be dangerous? Berent asked. It shouldn't be, Dr. Wayne said. You appear healthy enough. Quite healthy, in fact, and with a low suggestibility rating. Of course, epileptic fits do occur probably because of cumulative allergic reactions. Can't help that sort of thing. And then there are the traumas which sometimes result in insanity and death. They form an interesting study in themselves. And some people get stuck in their dreams and are unable to be extricated. I suppose that could be classified as a form of insanity, although actually it isn't. The doctor had finished mixing his drugs. He was loading a hypodermic with the mixture. Berent was having serious doubts about the advisability of the whole thing. Perhaps I should postpone this visit. He said, I'm not sure that I... Don't worry about a thing, the doctor said. This is the finest dream shop on Omega. Try to relax. Tight muscles can result in titanic convulsions. I think Mr. Arkdragan was right, Berent said. Maybe I shouldn't have a dream about Earth for my first visit. He said it was dangerous. Well, after all, the doctor said, what's life without a little risk? Besides, the most common damage is brain lesions and burst blood vessels, and we have full facilities for taking care of that sort of thing. He poised the hypodermic over Berent's left arm. I've changed my mind, Berent said, and started to get off the bed. Dr. Wayne deftly slid the needle into Berent's arm. One does not change one's mind, he told Berent, inside a dream shop. Try to relax. Berent relaxed. He lay back on the bed and heard a shrill singing in his ears. He tried to focus on the doctor's face, but the face had changed. The face was old, round, and fleshy. Ridges of fat stood out on the chin and neck. The face was perspiring, friendly, worried. It was Berent's fifth term advisor. Now, Will, the advisor said, you must be careful. You must learn to restrain that temper of yours, Will. You must. I know, sir, Berent said. It's just that I get so mad at that Will. All right, Berent said. I'll watch myself. He left the university office and walked into the city. It was a fantastic city of skyscrapers and multi-level streets. A brilliant city of silver and diamond hues. An ambitious city which administered a far-flung network of countries and planets. Berent walked along the third pedestrian level, still angry, thinking about Andrew Thurkaller. Because of Thurkaller and his ridiculous jealousy, Berent's application for the Space Exploration Corps had been turned down. There was nothing his advisor could do about the matter. Thurkaller had too much influence on the selection board. It would be a full three years before Berent could apply again. In the meantime, he was earthbound and unemployable. All his studies had been for extraterrestrial exploration. There was no place for him on earth, and now he was barred from space. Thurkaller. Berent left the pedestrian level and took the high-speed ramp into the Santé district. As the ramp moved, he fingered the small weapon in his pocket. Handguns were illegal on earth. He had procured his through untraceable means. He was determined to kill Thurkaller. There was a wash of grotesque faces. The dream blurred. When it cleared, Berent found himself aiming his handgun at a thin cross-eyed fellow whose scream for mercy was abruptly cut short. The informer, blank-faced and stern, noted the crime and informed the police. The police in uniforms of gray took him into custody and brought him before the judge. The judge, with his vague, parchment face, sentenced him to perpetual servitude upon the planet Omega and handed down the obligatory decree that Berent be cleansed of memory. Then the dream turned into a kaleidoscope of horror. Berent was climbing a slippery pole, a sheer mountainside, a smooth-sided well. Behind him, gaining on him, was Thurkaller's corpse with its chest ripped open. Supporting the corpse on either side were the blank-faced informer and the parchment-faced judge. Berent ran down a hill, a street, a rooftop. His pursuers were close behind him. He entered a dim yellow room, closed and locked the door. When he turned around, he saw that he had locked himself in with Thurkaller's corpse. Fungus was blossoming in the open wound in the chest and the scarred head was crowned with red and purple mold. The corpse advanced, reached for him, and Berent dived head-first through the window. Come out of it, Berent! You're overdoing it! Come out of the dream! Berent had no time to listen. The window turned into a chute and he slid down its polished sides into an amphitheater. There, across gray sand, the corpse crept toward him on the stubs of arms and legs. The enormous grandstand was empty except for the judge and the informer who sat side by side, watching. He stuck. Well, I warned him. Come out of the dream, Berent! This is Dr. Wayne. You're on Omega in the dream shop. Come out of the dream! There's still time if you pull yourself out immediately! Omega? Dream? There was no time to think about it. Berent was swimming across a dark, evil-smelling lake. The judge and the informer were swimming just behind him, thinking the corpse whose skin was slowly peeling away. Berent! And now the lake was turning into a thick jelly which clung to his arms and legs and filled his mouth while the judge and the informer... Berent! Berent opened his eyes and found himself on the adjustable bed in the dream shop. Dr. Wayne, looking somewhat shaken, was standing over him. A nurse was nearby with a tray of hypodermics and an oxygen mask. Behind her was Arkdragan, wiping perspiration from his forehead. I didn't think you were going to make it, Dr. Wayne said. I really didn't. He pulled out just in time, the nurse said. I warned him, Arkdragan said, and left the room. Berent sat up. What happened? he asked. Dr. Wayne shrugged his shoulders. It's hard to tell. Perhaps you were prone to a circular reaction and sometimes the drugs aren't absolutely pure, but these things usually don't happen more than once. Believe me, Citizen Berent, the drug experience is very pleasant. I'm sure you'll enjoy it the second time. Still shaken by his experience, Berent was certain there would be no second time for him. Whatever the cost, he was not going to risk a repetition of that nightmare. Am I addicted now? he asked. Oh no, Dr. Wayne said addiction occurs with the third or fourth visit. Berent thanked him and left. He passed Arkdragan's desk and asked how much he owed. Nothing, Arkdragan said. The first visit is always on the house. He gave Berent a knowing smile. Berent left the dream shop and hurried home to his apartment. He had a lot to think about. Now, for the first time, he had proof that he was a willful and premeditated murderer. Chapter 9 Being accused of a murder you can't remember is one thing. Remembering a murder you have been accused of is another thing entirely. Such evidence is hard to disbelieve. Berent tried to sort out his feelings on the matter. Before his visit to the dream shop, he had never felt himself a murderer. No matter what the authorities had accused him of. At worst he had thought that he might have killed a man in a sudden uncontrollable fit of rage, but to plan and perform a murder in cold blood. Why had he done it? Had his lust for revenge been so great as to throw off all the restraint of Earth's civilization? Apparently so. He had killed and someone had informed on him and a judge had sentenced him to Omega. He was a murderer on a criminal's planet. To live here successfully, he simply had to follow his natural bias towards murder. And yet Berent found this extremely difficult to do. He had surprisingly little taste for bloodshed. On Free Citizens Day, although he went into the streets with his needle-beam, he couldn't bring himself to slaughter any of the lower classes. He didn't want to kill. Ridiculous prejudice considering where and what he was, but there it was. No matter how often Tim Rend or Joe lectured him on his citizens' duties, Berent still found murder quite distasteful. He sought the aid of a psychiatrist who told him that his rejection of murder had its roots in an unhappy childhood. The phobia had been further complicated by the traumatic qualities of his experience in the dream shop. Because of this murder, the highest social good had become repugnant to him. This anti-murder neuroses in a man eminently suited for the art of killing would, the psychiatrist said, inevitably lead to Berent's destruction. The only solution was to displace the neuroses. The psychiatrist suggested immediate treatment in a sanitarium for the criminally non-murderous. Berent visited a sanitarium and heard the mad inmate screaming about goodness, unfair play, the sanctity of life, and other obscenities. He had no intention of joining them. Perhaps he was sick, but he wasn't that sick. His friends told him that his uncooperative attitude was bound to get him into trouble. Berent agreed, but he hoped by killing only when it became necessary that he would escape the observation of the highly placed individuals who administered the law. For several weeks his plans seemed to work. He ignored the increasingly preemptory notes from the dream shop and did not return to services at the weight-coven. Business prospered, and Berent spent his time studying the effects of the rarer poisons and practicing with his needle-beam. He often thought about the girl. He still had the gun she had lent him. He wondered if he would ever see her again. And he thought about Earth. Since his visit to the dream shop he had occasional flashes of recall, isolated pictures of a weathered stone building, a stand of live oaks, the curve of a river seen through willows. This half-remembered Earth filled him with an almost unbearable longing. Like most of the citizens of Omega, his only real wish was to go home. And that was impossible. The days passed, and when trouble came it came unexpectedly. One night there was a heavy knocking at his door. Half asleep Berent answered it. Four uniformed men pushed their way inside and told him he was under arrest. What for? Berent asked. Non-drug addiction, one of the men told him. You have three minutes to dress. What's the penalty? You'll find out in court, the man said. He winked at the other guards and added, but the only way to cure a non-addict is to kill him, eh? Berent dressed. He was taken to a room in the sprawling Department of Justice. The room was called the Kangaroo Court, in honor of ancient Anglo-Saxon judicial proceedings. Across the hall from it, also of antique derivation, was the Star Chamber. Just past that was the Court of Last Appeal. The Kangaroo Court was divided in half by a high wooden screen, for it was fundamental to Omega Justice that the accused should not see his judge nor any of the witnesses against him. Let the prisoner rise, the voice said from behind the screen. The voice, thin, flat, and emotionless came through a small amplifier. Berent could barely understand the words. Tone and inflection were lost, as had been planned for. Even in speaking, the judge remained anonymous. Will Berent, the judge said. You have been brought before this Court on a major charge of non-drug addiction and a minor charge of religious impiety. On the minor count, we have the sworn statement of a priest. On the major count, we have the testimony of the dream shop. Can you refute either of these charges? Berent thought for a moment, then answered. No, sir, I can't. For the present, the judge said, your religious impiety can be waved since it is of first offense, but non-drug addiction is a major crime against the state of Omega. The uninterrupted use of drugs is an enforced privilege of every citizen. It is well known that privileges must be exercised, otherwise they will be lost. To lose our privileges would be to lose the very cornerstone to our liberty. Therefore, to reject or otherwise fail to perform a privilege is tantamount to high treason. There was a pause. The guards shuffled their feet restlessly. Berent, who considered his situation hopeless, stood at attention and waited. Drugs serve many purposes, the hidden judge went on. I need not enumerate their desirable qualities for the user. But speaking from the viewpoint of the state, I will tell you that an addicted populace is a loyal populace. That drugs are a major source of tax revenue. That drugs exemplify our entire way of life. Furthermore, I say to you that the non-addicted minorities have invariably proven hostile to native Omega institutions. I give you this lengthy explanation, will Berent, in order that you may better understand the sentence which is to be passed upon you. Sir, Berent said, I was wrong in avoiding addiction. I won't plead ignorance because I know the law doesn't recognize that excuse. But I will ask you most humbly for another chance. I ask you to remember, sir, that addiction and rehabilitation are still possibilities for me. The court recognizes that, the judge said. For that reason, the court is pleased to exercise its fullest powers of judicial mercy. Instead of summary execution, you may choose between two lesser decrees. The first is punitive, that you shall suffer the loss of your right hand and left leg in atonement for your crime against the state, but that you shall not lose your life. Berent Gulp then asked, What is the other decree, sir? The other decree, which is non-punitive, is that you shall undergo a trial by ordeal, and that, if you survive such a trial, you shall be returned to appropriate rank and position in society. I'll take the trial by ordeal, Berent said. Very well, said the judge, let the case proceed. Berent was led from the room. Behind him he heard a quickly concealed laugh from one of the guards. Had he chosen wrong, he wondered. Could a trial by ordeal be worse than an outright mutilation? End of Part Two of The Status Civilization by Robert Sheckley