“Yet I’m a whole new me!” he continued his earlier thought, but this time in Galactic. “I’m Terry Ferman, and yet . . .”
“The citizen—Terry Ferman?—has now been restored to the level of competence of Grade One Galactic Citizen, and will realize that the illegal possession of unauthorized electronic gear is detrimental to the general welfare and will therefore report and place into the hands of customs any such gadgetry in his possession.”
This demand, Terry realized instantly, was aimed at surrender of the small field transmitter to which he was still clinging.
“It isn’t an illegal possession,” he returned. “Being an amateur radio operator, authorized by the government of the United States . . .” He trailed off, overruled by the new information in his own head as much as by the machine.
“No outworld agency can authorize the possession of illegal electronics equipment by a galactic citizen except under off world circumstances. Since you are no longer within the domain of any Terran government, no such authorization may be considered valid.”
“But . . . but . . .” The new orientation data was telling him it would be quite useless to argue the point. On some subjects these customs computer sections were quite obdurate, and one such subject was the emission of any type of random or spurious electro-magnetic signal in or near such a computer arrangement. It had not been made clear to him exactly what his transmitter could do, but that its use in this vicinity could quite possibly derange the computer was obvious. And a deranged computer, he realized with a shudder, was nothing he wanted to tackle at this time.
Nonetheless, he clutched the little transmitter closer to him instinctively. It was his last link to his own world. “This is all very well,” he said, grinning as he always did when a joke had gone far enough, “but I want to get back to Berkeley.”
“The citizen’s desire is unclear.”
“Don’t you understand? I’m lost and I want to stamp my feet on good old terra firma, and I want to do it right now!”
There was a pause that was more than a pause. Total silence set in. A red light went on in the far wall. A wave of fear swept away the momentary homesickness, as the new data in his own head calmly informed him that the next thing that would happen would be a “restraining paralysis for the subject’s own good.”
“Psycho!” said the computer.
“No, no, no,” cried Terry. “It’s more like, ah, poetry. Look in your Latin banks! Terra firma is solid ground. I’m perfectly oriented but I must retain the transmitter. It’s the only link I have with the planet I just arrived from. Anyhow, you have no authority to confiscate outworld scientific data or objects from a qualified explorer.”
The computer resumed buzzing, busily. And the feeling of imminent disaster disappeared as the red light on the wall blinked off. The silence stretched on and on.
Finally, with the effect of a baffled policeman returning to the real issue, the computer said, “Illegal electronics equipment.”
Terry felt his hand tremble a little, but made no reply.
“The citizen is, of course, entitled to the possession and use of standard items of Galactic Citizen’s gear, which will be issued on a loan basis by this terminal, since the citizen appears to have lost all the essentials. In addition the citizen will realize that possession of other equipment is dependent upon the classification level of achievement of the citizen as determined by due testing processes. Whenever the citizen can produce evidence to indicate a knowledge of the use and restrictions of use of this instrument within Galactic territory and according to Galactic law, the instrument will be returned. The citizen is now requested to place the electronic device in the slot on the left-hand wall, and follow the directional arrows to the stores area, where new equipment will be issued.”
Reluctantly, Terry turned and placed the little transmitter in the slot as directed. He must, he decided, play the game on the computer’s terms. It rankled, but the darn thing had all the cards on its side now. The transmitter was not only useless to him on his Quarantine World, but dangerous as well—Quarantine? Even as he wondered how he knew he realized how he knew. The orientation had been quite good.
The thought crossed his mind to double talk the computer into returning him, but he rejected the thought. It wouldn’t do. Another indication of “psychotic” behavior would result in “restraint for the subject’s own good” until a Galactic Supervisor intervened, and, he realized, that might be a long time. There hadn’t been anyone of that level here in nearly four hundred galactic years.
With a grin and a shrug he turned to find the arrow trail—and that was when the habit of talking to himself tripped him up. “Just wait until I get a meter on your insides. . . .” he found himself muttering.
He staved off the silence even as it was falling. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he said, “it’s only wishful thinking. Aren’t Galactic Citizens allowed to wish? Anyhow, you talk to yourself, too. I heard you.”
It was a full second before the intense silence lessened and the light humming of the computer resumed, and Terry realized that any conversation he held, with himself or with the computer, would be taken literally in computer-style and could be as dangerous to him as any possible signal from the little transmitter might have been for the computer. The kind of bantering half-humor that he was used to “thinking aloud” while working would be translated in context and not in intent by the humorless machine and would inevitably cause it to classify him as deranged. He shuddered and made a point of not expressing his next thought aloud.
Well, there was much he now knew that he hadn’t known before, and the vistas of unknown information that stretched beyond the brief orientation were dizzying to contemplate. For each bit of data he had received, there were a thousand channels of speculation opening in front of him.
In the meantime, the machine was waiting; not politely, just impassively. He turned again—quietly this time—and followed the arrows away from the orientation room and farther into the huge building.
He now knew the structure was an outpost Galactic receiving station. And he suddenly realized that it was not capable of returning him to his native world, nor did he even know where Earth was in relation to this world.
Terry Ferman was a Galactic Citizen, like it or not.
III
THE STORES AREA proved to hold few fascinations. Outside of more suitable light slacks, shirt and sandals to replace his cumbersome cold weather clothing, only five items of equipment were issued. Terry was able to recognize each item from his orientation training.
The first, so far as he could tell, was probably the most useless: a combination translator and personal telephone. It was a small device designed to be worn around the neck, capable of three thousand language sets. It could, theoretically, put him in communication with anyone on the planet. So far as Terry knew, and he knew it with a cold inner certitude, he was the only human being on the planet.
The most useful device in case of danger was a small stunner. It was not standard citizenry equipment but a device issued only on primitive worlds or frontier outposts, capable of rendering unconscious any life form having an electronic nervous system, from human to mobile robot.
Then there was a pair of sunglasses; at least, that’s how Terry thought of them. They were capable
