"Till tomorrow then," she said, smiled at him, and closed the door.
He walked away feeling light-headed. Janna! Janna! Was it conceivable that he was in love already? Why not? Love at first sight was a proven psycho-physiological possibility and, as such, was perfectly respectable. Love in Utopia! How wonderful it was that here, upon a perfect planet, he had found the perfect girl!
A man stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. Goodman noted that he was wearing a black silk mask which covered everything except his eyes. He was carrying a large and powerful-looking blaster, and it was pointed steadily at Goodman's stomach.
"Okay, buddy," the man said, "gimme all your money."
"What?" Goodman gasped.
"You heard me. Your money. Hand it over."
"You can't do this," Goodman said, too startled to think coherently. "There's no crime on Tranai!"
"Who said there was?" the man asked quietly. "I'm merely asking you for your money. Are you going to hand it over peacefully or do I have to club it out of you?"
"You can't get away with this! Crime does not pay!"
"Don't be ridiculous," the man said. He hefted the heavy blaster.
"All right. Don't get excited." Goodman pulled out his billfold, which contained all he had in the world, and gave its contents to the masked man.
The man counted it, and he seemed impressed. "Better than I expected. Thanks, buddy. Take it easy now."
He hurried away down a dark street.
Goodman looked wildly around for a policeman, until he remembered that there were no police on Tranai. He saw a small cocktail lounge on the corner with a neon sign saying Kitty Kat Bar. He hurried into it.
Inside, there was only a bartender, somberly wiping glasses.
"I've been robbed!" Goodman shouted at him.
"So?" the bartender said, not even looking up.
"But I thought there wasn't any crime on Tranai."
"There isn't."
"But I was robbed."
"You must be new here," the bartender said, finally looking at him.
"I just came in from Terra."
"Terra? Nervous, hustling sort of —"
"Yes, yes," Goodman said. He was getting a little tired of that stereotype. "But how can there be no crime on Tranai if I was robbed?"
"That should be obvious. On Tranai, robbery is no crime."
"But robbery is always a crime!"
"What color mask was he wearing?"
Goodman thought for a moment. "Black. Black silk."
The bartender nodded. "Then he was a government tax collector."
"That's a ridiculous way to collect taxes," Goodman snapped.
The bartender set a Tranai Special in front of Goodman. "Try to see this in terms of the general welfare. The government has to have some money. By collecting it this way, we can avoid the necessity of an income tax, with all its complicated legal and legislative apparatus. And in terms of mental health, it's far better to extract money in a short, quick, painless operation than to permit the citizen to worry all year long about paying at a specific date."
Goodman downed his drink and the bartender set up another.
"But," Goodman said, "I thought this was a society based upon the concepts of free will and individual initiative."
"It is," the bartender told him. "Then surely the government, what little there is of it, has the same right to free will as any private citizen, hasn't it?"
Goodman couldn't quite figure that out, so he finished his second drink. "Could I have another of those? I'll pay you as soon as I can."
"Sure, sure," the bartender said good-naturedly, pouring another drink and one for himself.
Goodman said, "You asked me what color his mask was. Why?"
"Black is the government mask color. Private citizens wear white masks."
"You mean that private citizens commit robbery also?"
"Well, certainly! That's our method of wealth distribution. Money is equalized without government intervention, without even taxation, entirely in terms of individual initiative." The bartender nodded emphatically. "And it works perfectly, too. Robbery is a great leveler, you know."
"I suppose it is," Goodman admitted, finishing his third drink. "If I understand correctly, then, any citizen can pack a blaster, put on a mask, and go out and rob."
"Exactly," the bartender said. "Within limits, of course."
Goodman snorted. "If that's how it works, I can play that way. Could you loan me a mask? And a gun?"
The bartender reached under the bar. "Be sure to return them, though. Family heirlooms."
"I'll return them," Goodman promised. "And when I come back, I'll pay for my drinks."
He slipped the blaster into his belt, donned the mask and left the bar. If this was how things worked on Tranai, he could adjust all right. Rob him, would they? He'd rob them right back and then some!
He found a suitably dark street corner and huddled in the shadows, waiting. Presently he heard footsteps and, peering around the corner, saw a portly, well-dressed Tranaian hurrying down the street.
Goodman stepped in front of him, snarling, "Hold it, buddy."
The Tranaian stopped and looked at Goodman's blaster. "Hmmm. Using a wide-aperture Drog 3, eh? Rather an old-fashioned weapon. How do you like it?"
"It's fine," Goodman said. "Hand over your —"
"Slow trigger action, though," the Tranaian mused. "Personally, I recommend a Mils-Sleeven needler. As it happens, I'm a sales representative for Sleeven Arms. I could get you a very good price on a trade-in —"
"Hand over your money," Goodman barked.
The portly Tranaian smiled. "The basic defect of your Drog 3 is the fact that it won't fire at all unless you release the safety lock." He reached out and slapped the gun out of Goodman's hand. "You see? You couldn't have done a thing about it." He started to walk away.
Goodman scooped up the blaster, found the safety lock, released it and hurried after the Tranaian.
"Stick up your hands," Goodman ordered, beginning to feel slightly desperate.
"No, no, my good man," the Tranaian said, not even looking back. "Only one try to a customer. Mustn't break the unwritten law, you know."
Goodman stood and watched until the man turned a corner and was gone. He checked the Drog 3 carefully and made sure that all safeties were off. Then he resumed his post.
After an hour's wait, he heard footsteps again. He tightened his grip on the blaster. This time he was going to rob and nothing was going to stop him.
"Okay, buddy," he said, "hands up!"
The victim this time was a short, stocky Tranaian, dressed in old workman's clothes. He gaped at the gun in Goodman's hand.
"Don't shoot, mister," the Tranaian pleaded.
That was more like it! Goodman felt a glow of deep satisfaction.
"Just don't move," he warned. "I've got all safeties off."
"I can see that," the stocky man said cringing. "Be careful with that cannon, mister. I ain't moving a hair."
"You'd better not. Hand over your money."
"Money?"
"Yes; your money, and be quick about it."
"I don't have any money," the man whined. "Mister, I'm a poor man. I'm poverty-stricken."
"There is no poverty on Tranai," Goodman said sententiously.
"I know. But you can get so close to it, you wouldn't know the difference. Give me a break, mister."
"Haven't you any initiative?" Goodman asked. "If you're poor, why don't you go out and rob like everybody else?"
"I just haven't had a chance. First the kid got the whooping cough and I was up every night with her. Then the derrsin broke down, so I had the wife yakking at me all day long. I say there oughta be a spare derrsin in every house! So she decided to clean the place while the derrsin generator was being fixed and she put my blaster somewhere and she can't remember where. So I was all set to borrow a friend's blaster when —"