Pilgrimage to Earth
Alfred Simon was born on Kazanga IV, a small agricultural planet near Arcturus, and there he drove a combine through the wheat fields, and in the long, hushed evenings listened to the recorded love songs of Earth.
Life was pleasant enough on Kazanga, and the girls were buxom, jolly, frank and acquiescent, good companions for a hike through the hills or a swim in the brook, staunch mates for life. But romantic — never! There was good fun to be had on Kazanga, in a cheerful open manner. But there was no more than fun.
Simon felt that something was missing in this bland existence. One day, he discovered what it was.
A vendor came to Kazanga in a battered spaceship loaded with books. He was gaunt, white-haired, and a little mad. A celebration was held for him, for novelty was appreciated on the outer worlds.
The vendor told them all the latest gossip, of the price war between Detroit II and III, and how fishing fared on Alana, and what the president's wife on Moracia wore, and how oddly the men of Doran V talked. And at last someone said, “Tell us of Earth.”
“Ah!” said the vendor, raising his eyebrows. “You want to hear of the old mother planet? Well, friends, there's no place like old Earth, no place at all. On Earth, friends, everything is possible, and nothing is denied.”
“Nothing?” Simon asked.
“They've got a law against denial,” the vendor explained, grinning. “No one has ever been know to break it. Earth is different, friends. You folks specialize in farming? Well Earth specializes in impracticalities such as madness, beauty, war, intoxication, purity, horror, and the like, and people come from light-years away to sample these wares.”
“And love?” a woman asked.
“Why, girl,” the vendor said gently, “Earth is the only place in the galaxy that still has love! Detroit II and II tried it and found it too expensive, you know, and Alana decided it was too unsettling, and there was no time to import it on Moracia or Doran V. But as I said, Earth specializes in the impractical, and makes it pay.”
“Pay?” a bulky farmer asked.
“Of course! Earth is old, her minerals are gone and her fields are barren. Her colonies are independent now, and filled with sober folk such as yourselves, who want value for their goods. So what else can old Earth deal in, except the non-essentials that make life worth living?”
“Were you in love on Earth?” Simon asked.
“That I was,” the vendor answered, with a certain grimness. “I was in love, and now I travel. Friends, these books…”
For an exorbitant price, Simon bought an ancient poetry book, and reading, dreamed of passion beneath the lunatic moon, of dawn glimmering whitely upon lovers' parched lips, of locked bodies on a dark sea-beach, desperate with love and deafened by the booming surf.
And only on Earth was this possible! For, as the vendor told, Earth's scattered children were too hard at work wrestling a living from alien soil. The wheat and corn grew on Kazanga, and the factories increased on Detroit II and III. The fisheries of Alana were the talk of the Southern start belt, and there were dangerous beasts on Moracia, and a whole wilderness to be won on Doran V. And this was well, and exactly as it should be.
But the new worlds were austere, carefully planned, sterile in their perfections. Something had been lost in the dead reaches of space, and only Earth knew love.
Therefore, Simon worked and saved and dreamed. And in his twenty-ninth year he sold his farm, packed all his clean shirts into a serviceable handbag, put on his best suit and a pair of stout walking shoes, and boarded the Kazanga-Metropole flyer.
At last he came to Earth, where dreams must come true, for there is a law against their failure.
He passed quickly through Customs at Spaceport New York, and was shuttled underground to Times Square. There he emerged blinking into daylight, tightly clutching his handbag, for he had been warned about pickpockets, cutpurses and other denizens of the city.
Breathless with wonder, he looked around.
The first thing that struck him was the endless array of theaters, with attractions in two dimensions, three or four, depending upon your preference. And what attractions!
To the right of him a beetling marquee proclaimed: LUST ON VENUS! A DOCUMENTARY ACCOUNT OF SEX PRACTICES AMONG THE INHABITANTS OF THE GREEN HELL! SHOCKING! REVEALING!
He wanted to go in. But across the street was a war film. The billboard shouted, THE SUN BUSTERS! DEDICATED TO THE DAREDEVILS OF THE SPACE MARINES! And further down was a picture called TARZAN BATTLES THE SATURNIAN GHOULS!
Tarzan, he recalled from his reading, was an ancient ethnic hero of Earth.
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, hotdogs, spaghetti and knishes. And there were stores which 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 bull-eyes painted on their foreheads and above each breast.
“But do you fire real bullets?” Simon asked.
“Of course!” the manager said. “There is 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 on 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 sub-machine 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?”