It was all wonderful, but there was so much more! He saw little open shops where one could buy food of all worlds, and especially such native Terran dishes as pizza, hot dogs, spaghetti, and knishes. And there were stores that sold surplus clothing from the Terran spacefleets, and other stores which sold nothing but beverages.
Simon didn’t know what to do first. Then he heard a staccato burst of gunfire behind him, and whirled.
It was only a shooting gallery, a long, narrow, brightly painted place with a waist-high counter. The manager, a swarthy fat man with a mole on his chin sat on a high stool and smiled at Simon.
“Try your luck?”
Simon walked over and saw that, instead of the usual targets, there were four scantily dressed women at the end of the gallery, seated upon bullet-scored chairs. They had tiny bulls-eyes painted on their foreheads and above each breast.
“But do you fire real bullets?” Simon asked.
“Of course!” the manager said. “There’s a law against false advertising on Earth. Real bullets and real gals! Step up and knock one off!”
One of the women called out, “Come on, sport! Bet you miss me!”
Another screamed, “He couldn’t hit the broad side of a spaceship!”
“Sure he can!” another shouted. “Come on, sport!”
Simon rubbed his forehead and tried not to act surprised. After all, this was Earth, where anything was allowed as long as it was commercially feasible.
He asked, “Are there galleries where you shoot men, too?”
“Of course,” the manager said. “But you ain’t no pervert, are you?”
“Certainly not!”
“You an outworlder?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“The suit. Always tell by the suit.” The fat man closed his eyes and chanted, “Step up, step up and kill a woman! Get rid of a load of repressions! Squeeze the trigger and feel the old anger ooze out of you! Better than a massage! Better than getting drunk! Step up, step up and kill a woman!”
Simon asked one of the girls, “Do you stay dead when they kill you?”
“Don’t be stupid,” the girl said.
“But the shock—”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I could do worse.”
Simon was about to ask how she could do worse, when the manager leaned over the counter, speaking confidentially.
“Look, buddy. Look what I got here.”
Simon glanced over the counter and saw a compact submachine gun.
“For a ridiculously low price,” the manager said, “I’ll let you use the tommy. You can spray the whole place, shoot down the fixtures, rip up the walls. This drives a .45 slug, buddy, and it kicks like a mule. You really know you’re firing when you fire the tommy.”
“I am not interested,” Simon said sternly.
“I’ve got a grenade or two,” the manager said. “Fragmentation, of course. You could really—”
“No!”
“For a price,” the manager said, “you can shoot me, too, if that’s how your tastes run, although I wouldn’t have guessed it. What do you say?”
“No! Never! This is horrible!”
The manager looked at him blankly. “Not in the mood now? Okay. I’m open twenty-four hours a day. See you later, sport.”
“Never!” Simon said, walking away.
“Be expecting you, lover!” one of the women called after him.
Simon went to a refreshment stand and ordered a small glass of cola-cola. He found that his hands were shaking. With an effort he steadied them, and sipped his drink. He reminded himself that he must not judge Earth by his own standards. If people on Earth enjoyed killing people, and the victims didn’t mind being killed, why should anyone object?
Or should they?
He was pondering this when a voice at his elbow said, “Hey, bub.”
Simon turned and saw a wizened, furtive-faced little man in an oversize raincoat standing beside him.
“Out-of-towner?” the little man asked.
“I am,” Simon said. “How did you know?”
“The shoes. I always look at the shoes. How do you like our little planet?”
“It’s—confusing,” Simon said carefully. “I mean I didn’t expect—well—”
“Of course,” the little man said. “You’re an idealist. One look at your honest face tells me that, my friend. You’ve come to Earth for a definite purpose. Am I right’”
Simon nodded. The little man said, “I know your purpose, my friend. You’re looking for a war that will make the world safe for something, and you’ve come to the right place. We have six major wars running at all times, and there’s never any waiting for an important position in any of them.”
“Sorry, but—”
“Right at this moment,” the little man said impressively, “the downtrodden workers of Peru are engaged in a desperate struggle against a corrupt and decadent monarchy. One more man could swing the contest! You, my friend, could be that man! You could guarantee the socialist victory!”
Observing the expression on Simon’s face, the little man said quickly, “But there’s a lot to be said for an enlightened aristocracy. The wise old king of Peru (a philosopher-king in the deepest Platonic sense of the word) sorely needs your help. His tiny corps of scientists, humanitarians, Swiss guards, knights of the realm, and loyal peasants is sorely pressed by the foreign-inspired socialist conspiracy. A single man, now—”
“I’m not interested,” Simon said.
“In China, the Anarchists—”
“No.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer the Communists in Wales? Or the Capitalists in Japan? Or if your affinities lie with a splinter group such as Feminists, Prohibitionists, Free Silverists, or the like, we could probably arrange—”
“I don’t want a war,” Simon said.
“Who could blame you?” the little man said, nodding rapidly. “War is hell. In that case, you’ve come to Earth for love.”
“How did you know?” Simon asked.
The little man smiled modestly. “Love and war,” he said, “are Earth’s two staple commodities. We’ve been turning them both out in bumper crops since the beginning of time.”
“Is love very difficult to find?” Simon asked.
“Walk uptown two blocks,” the little man said briskly. “Can’t miss it. Tell ‘em Joe sent you.”
“But that’s impossible! You can’t just walk out and—”
“What do you know about love?” Joe asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, we’re experts on it.”
“I know what the books say,” Simon said. “Passion beneath the lunatic moon—”
“Sure, and bodies on a dark sea-beach desperate with love and deafened by the booming surf.”
“You’ve read that book?”
“It’s the standard advertising brochure. I must be going. Two blocks uptown. Can’t miss it.”
And with a pleasant nod, Joe moved into the crowd.
Simon finished his cola-cola and walked slowly up Broadway, his brow knotted in thought, but determined not to form any premature judgments.
When he reached 44th Street he saw a tremendous neon sign flashing brightly. It said, LOVE, INC.
Smaller neon letters read, Open 24 Hours a Day!
Beneath that it read, Up One Flight.
Simon frowned, for a terrible suspicion had just crossed his mind. Still, he climbed the stairs and entered a small, tastefully furnished reception room. From there he was sent down a long corridor to a numbered room.
Within the room was a handsome gray-haired man who rose from behind an impressive desk and shook his hand, saying, “Well! How are things on Kazanga?”
“How did you know I was from Kazanga?”
“That shirt. I always look at the shirt. I’m Mr. Tate, and I’m here to serve you to the best of my ability. You are...”
“Simon, Alfred Simon.”
“Please be seated, Mr. Simon. Cigarette? Drink? You won’t regret coming to us, sir. We’re the oldest love-dispensing firm in the business, and much larger than our closest competitor, Passion Unlimited. Moreover, our fees are far more reasonable, and bring you an improved product. Might I ask how you heard of us? Did you see our full page ad in the Times? Or—”