The following night, the five hundred deeglo — plus some of Goodman's bonus money — was robbed back, by a man of approximately the size and build of the bartender at the Kitty Kat, carrying an ancient Drog 3 blaster.
Goodman consoled himself with the thought that the money was circulating freely, as the system had intended.
Then he had another triumph. One day at the Abbag Home Robot Works, he discovered a completely new process for making a robot's case. It was a special plastic, impervious even to serious bumps and falls. The robot owner had to wear special shoes, with a catalytic agent imbedded in the heels. When he kicked the robot, the catalyst came in contact with the plastic case, with immediate and gratifying effect.
Abbag was a little uncertain at first; it seemed too gimmicky. But the thing caught on like wildfire and the Home Robot Works went into the shoe business as a subsidiary, I selling at least one pair with every robot.
This horizontal industrial development was very gratifying to the plant's stockholders and was really more important than the original catalyst-plastic discovery. Goodman received a substantial raise in pay and a generous bonus.
On the crest of his triumphant wave, he proposed to Janna and was instantly accepted. Her parents favored the match; all that remained was to obtain official sanction from the government, since Goodman was still technically an alien.
Accordingly, he took a day off from work and walked down to the Idrig Building to see Melith. It was a glorious spring day of the sort that Tranai has for ten months out of the year, and Goodman walked with a light and springy step. He was in love, a success in business, and soon to become a citizen of Utopia.
Of course, Utopia could use some changes, for even Tranai wasn't quite perfect. Possibly he should accept the Supreme Presidency, in order to make the needed reforms. But there was no rush…
"Hey, mister," a voice said, "can you spare a deeglo?"
Goodman looked down and saw, squatting on the pavement, an unwashed old man, dressed in rags, holding out a tin cup.
"What?" Goodman asked.
"Can you spare a deeglo, brother?" the man repeated in a wheedling voice. "Help a poor man buy a cup of oglo? Haven't eaten in two days, mister."
"This is disgraceful! Why don't you get a blaster and go out and rob someone?"
"I'm too old," the man whimpered. "My victims just laugh at me."
"Are you sure you aren't just lazy?" Goodman asked sternly.
"I'm not, sir!" the beggar said. "Just look how my hands shake!"
He held out both dirty paws; they trembled.
Goodman took out his billfold and gave the old man a deeglo. "I thought there was no poverty on Tranai. I understood that the government took care of the aged."
"The government does," said the old man. "Look." He held out his cup. Engraved on its side was: government authorized BEGGAR, NUMBER DR-43241-3.
"You mean the government makes you do this?"
"The government lets me do it," the old man told him. "Begging is a government job and is reserved for the aged and infirm."
"Why, that's disgraceful!"
"You must be a stranger here."
"I'm a Terran."
"Aha! Nervous, hustling sort of people, aren't you?"
"Our government does not let people beg," Goodman said.
"No? What do the old people do? Live off their children? Or sit in some home for the aged and wait for death by boredom? Not here, young man. On Tranai, every old man is assured of a government job, and one for which he needs no particular skill, although skill helps. Some apply for indoor work, within the churches and theatres. Others like the excitement of fairs and carnivals. Personally, I like it outdoors. My job keeps me out in the sunlight and fresh air, gives me mild exercise, and helps me meet many strange and interesting people, such as yourself."
"But begging!"
"What other work would I be suited for?"
"I don't know. But — but look at you! Dirty, unwashed, in filthy clothes —"
"These are my working clothes," the government beggar said. "You should see me on Sunday."
"You have other clothes?"
"I certainly do, and a pleasant little apartment, and a season box at the opera, and two Home Robots, and probably more money in the bank than you've seen in your life. It's been pleasant talking to you, young man, and thanks for your contribution. But now I must return to work and suggest you do likewise."
Goodman walked away, glancing over his shoulder at the government beggar. He observed that the old man seemed to be doing a thriving business.
But begging!
Really, that sort of thing should be stopped. If he ever assumed the Presidency — and quite obviously he should — he would look into the whole matter more carefully.
It seemed to him that there had to be a more dignified answer.
At the Idrig Building, Goodman told Melith about his marriage plans.
The immigrations minister was enthusiastic.
"Wonderful, absolutely wonderful," he said. "I've known the Vley family for a long time. They're splendid people. And Janna is a girl any man would be proud of."
"Aren't there some formalities I should go through?" Goodman asked. "I mean being an alien and all —"
"None whatsoever. I've decided to dispense with the formalities. You can become a citizen of Tranai, if you wish, by merely stating your intention verbally. Or you can retain Terran citizenship, with no hard feelings. Or you can do both — be a citizen of Terra and Tranai. If Terra doesn't mind, we certainly don't."
"I think I'd like to become a citizen of Tranai," Goodman said.
"It's entirely up to you. But if you're thinking about the Presidency, you can retain Terran status and still hold office. We aren't at all stuffy about that sort of thing. One of our most successful Supreme Presidents was a lizard-evolved chap from Aquarella XI."
"What an enlightened attitude!"
"Sure, give everybody a chance, that's our motto. Now as to your marriage — any government employee can perform the ceremonies. Supreme President Borg would be happy to do it, this afternoon if you like." Melith winked. "The old codger likes to kiss the bride. But I think he's genuinely fond of you."
"This afternoon?" Goodman said. "Yes, I would like to be married this afternoon, if it's all right with Janna."
"It probably will be," Melith assured him. "Next, where are you going to live after the honeymoon? A hotel room is hardly suitable." He thought for a moment. "Tell you what — I've got a little house on the edge of town. Why don't you move in there, until you find something better? Or stay permanently, if you like it."
"Really," Goodman protested, "you're too generous —"
"Think nothing of it. Have you ever thought of becoming the next immigrations minister? You might like the work. No red tape, short hours, good pay — No? Got your eye on the Supreme Presidency, eh? Can't blame you, I suppose."
Melith dug in his pockets and found two keys. "This is for the front door and this is for the back. The address is stamped right on them. The place is fully equipped, including a brand-new derrsin field generator."
"A derrsin?"
"Certainly. No home on Tranai is complete without a derrsin stasis field generator."
Clearing his throat, Goodman said carefully, "I've been meaning to ask you — exactly what is the stasis field used for?"
"Why, to keep one's wife in," Melith answered. "I thought you knew."
"I did," said Goodman. "But why?"
"Why?" Melith frowned. Apparently the question had never entered his head. "Why does one do anything? It's the custom, that's all. And very logical, too. You wouldn't want a woman chattering around you all the time, night and day."