From this maze of screens and speakers, a voice was murmuring: ” . . . Fingerprints, palm prints, retinal patterns, total body index: not on record. Conclusion unavoidable that this individual is not native to this planet.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Roberts, “we had gravitor trouble. We headed for the nearest repair facility, got here crippled, couldn’t raise any response on the communicator, and half-a-dozen of us came down in the ship’s tender. The tender cracked up in a forest forty miles from the spaceport. Three of my men were badly hurt. One of us stayed with them, and two of us hiked out for help. When we reached your city, here, we got garbage dumped on us, tin cans and chunks of cement slung at us, a gang of kids went for us, and then your iron gendarmes arrested us for causing a riot.”
“Unsuitable attire,” snapped a voice from the metal box to Roberts’ right.
“We are dressed as spacemen,” said Roberts shortly. “Now, I’ve got three injured men in the tender, and a ship in orbit with the rest of my crew trapped on board. We’ll gladly pay for medical help and repairs. Where are they?”
A general murmur and clack rose from the big metal box in front of Roberts. On the screens, human faces and metal forms of various sizes and shapes rapidly came and went. From somewhere in the room, Roberts could hear the voice of Hammell, his cargo-control officer, raised in anger.
Then a speaker in front of him was murmuring, “On basis of correlation of statements of both accused, overall probability of guilt is 0.2, necessity of making examples 0.1. Therefore, adjudge innocent, transfer to Immigration.”
At once, a loud voice announced, “We find the accused innocent of all charges brought against him.”
From Roberts’ roboid captors, to either side, came low murmurs of discontent.
A new voice spoke with authority. “The prisoner will be released at once, and escorted to Immigration for disposal.”
Roberts blinked. “I don’t want to immigrate. I just need repairs for my ship!”
The words CRIMINAL COURT faded out and the words IMMIGRATION HEARING flickered on.
“Name,” said the box.
Roberts said, “I’ve been through all that. What I want . . .”
“Name,” said the box sternly.
To Roberts’ right, one of the smaller boxes explained. “You were at the Criminal Court. Now you are at the Immigration Hearing.”
“I don’t want to immigrate!” said Roberts.
The big metal box said sternly, “This case has been transferred to Immigration for disposal. Relevant information of interest to applicant: 1) No individual not already a citizen will be compelled against his will to become a citizen. 2) Due to food and material shortages, technological breakdowns, and attendant malfunctions, no one not a citizen will be fed, sheltered, clothed, or otherwise allowed to become a charge on the planet, unless otherwise decided by the due and constituted authorities.” There was a brief pause. “Name.”
Roberts blinked. Apparently he would have to become a citizen in order to exist while arranging for repairs.
“Name,” snapped the box.
“Roberts. Vaughan N. Roberts.”
“Sex.”
“Male.”
“Age.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Height.”
“Six feet one-quarter inch.”
“Weight.”
“One hundred seventy-five pounds. Look . . .”
“Occupation?”
“Spaceship captain. Listen, all I want . . .”
“Inapplicable occupation. Demand for spaceship captains on this planet: Zero. Correction: Occupation: Unskilled. Years of experience?”
Roberts stared. “Experience? As a spaceship captain?”
“As unskilled,” snapped the box. “This is your occupation.”
Roberts said, “I have no experience as unskilled. I . . .”
“No experience,” said the box disapprovingly. “Any physical defects?”
“No. Look, all . . .”
“Convicted of how many crimes the last three years?”
“None. All I . . .”
“Formal education?”
Roberts blew out his breath. “Twelve years of general schooling, six years training in the Space Academy, one year at the Tactical Combat Command Advanced Training Center. And all I want is to get some repairs done!”
“Seven years college training. Equivalent fourteen years experience credit. Excellent. Raise your right hand.”
Roberts exasperatedly raised his right hand.
“Repeat after me,” said the box, and rolled off words in short incomplete groups, so that Roberts had time to repeat the words, but not to understand their full meaning. Then the box said, “You are now a citizen of the planet Boschock III, known as Paradise, and entitled to all the rights and privileges appertaining thereto, and subject to all the laws, regulations, and customs thereof, so help you God, Amen. This hearing is closed.”
The words IMMIGRATION HEARING faded out.
Before Roberts could say a word, he was rushed up a gravity-lift, down a hall, and shoved into a room where he was weighed, measured, photographed, fingerprinted, palm, toe, and foot-printed, retina-graphed, his mouth pried open and teeth examined, and then he was presented with an identification card, and run down the hall to a window where ration books popped out of slots onto a counter. Next he was hurried out to a store full of huge vending machines, and outfitted with a new set of clothes.
Roberts and Hammell now found themselves outside, holding their own clothing wrapped in big bundles, and each wearing a kind of loose long-sleeved blouse, loose long pantaloons, ill-fitting shoes, and long-billed high-topped floppy cap.
Roberts looked sourly up the street at the milling crowd, then glanced at Hammell. “Do you have any ideas?”
“I wouldn’t know an idea if one banged into me,” growled Hammell. “I’m so mad I can’t see straight.”
“We need to get in touch with someone in authority—if any human on this planet has authority.”
“Yes,” said Hammell. “But how?”
Roberts said, “If they have any kind of public communications system here, there ought to be a directory.”
While they were trying to think where to look for one, a large mobile metal box stopped in front of them, and abruptly shot its antenna to full height. Metal covers on its sides snapped back and a dazzling yellow light flashed in their faces. A set of long flexible metal arms whipped out, a mesh-covered speaker snapped “Spot check,” and with a quick flip of the metal arms, the robot emptied their pockets onto the sidewalk. Next, it rapidly felt them all over, then jerked loose the bundles they were holding, so that they spilled open in the street.
“Nonexplosive. Clothing. But nonstandard. You have receipts for these?”
For the moment, Roberts was speechless. He heard Hammell snarl, “They’re our own clothes.”
“Uncitylike behavior, one count: lying to roboid police officer under direct interrogation during spot check; these are not clothes permissible for a citizen to wear, hence they are not your clothes. They can only be costumes, and costumes can only be purchased by registered entertainers. You are not dressed as registered entertainers.” The yellow light flashed in Roberts’ face. “You. You have receipts for these? Your answer? Do not lie.”
“We’re new citizens,” Roberts began, “and—”
“Not asked. Do not evade the question. Do you have receipts for these costumes?”
“Of course,” said Roberts. “Yes, certainly.”
“Produce the receipts.”
“They’re on board the spaceship Orion. We wore these clothes on board Orion, came down to arrange for repairs, got sent to Immigration, and then bought the clothes we’re wearing now. These clothes in the bundles are the clothes we wore when we came down.”
“Spaceship visits are rare, improbable. It follows, this explanation is improbable. Arrest on suspicion of shoplifting. You will come with me for immediate interrogation while investigation proceeds.”
The two men were separated, placed under bright lights for a long series of questions, then put into a cell with two cots, a light bulb, a toilet, a 3-V set that didn’t work, and a decorative design on the ceiling that obviously incorporated the pick-up heads for a sight-and-sound recording system.
As the robot-jailer rolled off down the corridor, Roberts and Hammell eyed the ceiling, and lay down on the cots without a word.
* * *
Several hours crawled by, then a tall gray-haired man wearing dark-blue blouse and pantaloons, of good material and narrow cut, walked down the corridor, and stopped outside the cell.
“Which of you is Roberts, Vaughan N.?”
“I am.”
“You represent yourself as a spaceship captain?”
“I’m captain of T.S.M. Orion, Interstellar Rapid Transport Corporation. The ship is now orbiting this planet with a nonfunctional main gravitor. I came down here to arrange for repairs, but our tender went out of control, we cracked up, two of us hiked in to get help, were attacked by a gang, arrested, dragged into court, given to understand we would immigrate or starve to death, then arrested again because we couldn’t produce receipts for the clothes we’d worn down, and here we are.”
“I see. And this other individual . . . let’s see . . . Hammell?”
“He’s the cargo-control officer assigned to Orion.”
“As which,” said Hammell coldly, “it is my duty to tell you that Orion has a spoilable cargo. This planet is supposed to have a Class II commercial repair facility. We’ve been trying to get in touch with it for days.”