The Project Gutenberg eBook of No-risk Planet, by Milton Lesser.

Mr. Herman Spottsworth
Interstellar Division
Terran Insurance Co.
Baltimore, Md., Earth

The natives got a big kick out of it when I told them what the name of their planet means in English. It means peaceful. From what I could gather, the first Terran to land here fifty years ago was so impressed with the balmy climate and pleasant rolling terrain and almost tideless oceans that he named the planet Halcyon. The only catch is, the natives have all the food they want and all the natural resources and just about everything. So, they have nothing to keep them occupied except fighting wars. They haven't been able to string three peaceful years together since the beginning of recorded history here, two thousand years ago. It's kind of like a game with them.

That being the case, I ought to establish a new record for the Interstellar Division. I've got to sign off now because the air-raid bell just rang. Regards to Joanie.

Glad to see you've arrived O.K. and are so impressed with the sales potential there. Remember the motto of the Interstellar Division: IF YOU CAN PLANET-FALL, YOU CAN SELL....

That air-raid was murder! You'd better double my own life insurance policy. Take the premiums out of my salary, please. Incidentally, your letter almost got lost because you forgot to include "Interstellar Hotel" in the address. It's a fifty-room fleabag, boss, but they got pride. Please take good care of Joanie.

You've been on Halcyon three weeks now. How come you wrote up no policies yet? You aren't taking the sights in like a tourist, are you—on a Terran expense account?

Please note the new address. The Interstellar Hotel was blown to bits in the last air-raid. I'm scared, boss. There are air-raids around the clock, with Halcyonians dropping off like flies.

And that answers your question, incidentally. There are no tourists on Halcyon. It's too dangerous. Better quadruple my own life insurance policy. And tell Joan I love her.

I've quadrupled your policy. I'm taking care of Joanie. I'm awaiting your first sale.

I'm trying. I'm trying my head off. With those big premiums to pay, don't you think I could use the commission?

There's something fishy going on here on Halcyon, but I can't figure it out yet. The way they get killed off in these wars, the Halcyonians ought to snap up insurance policies. In fact, I don't even know how much profit the Company could expect to make from them, but that's your department. It's funny, though. The Halcyonians don't want life insurance. They don't even know what life insurance is!

To give you an idea of what I mean, I'll quote verbatim a conversation I had with a couple of Halcyonians right after this morning's air-raid, which leveled every building on their block except their own.

ME: (tuning my language translator to its most cheerful pitch): I'm from the planet Earth. Did you ever hear of the planet Earth?

ME: Well, anyhow, I represent the Terran Insurance Company, Interstellar Division. I'm here on Halcyon to offer your loved ones financial protection from the ravages of war, via life insurance.

ME: Life insurance. The special, triple indemnity war and disaster policy of the Terran Insurance Company.

ME: I have here in my hand (this required some explanation, boss, because the Halcyonians do not have hands) a blank policy for you to look at. Life insurance, you see, pays a stipulated sum to a party of your designation in the event of your death. All you do is pay small yearly premiums, and....

ME (gasping): What? There's another insurance salesman in my territory? Someone's poaching?

SECOND HALCYONIAN: He's been here some time now, but we couldn't possibly be interested.

FIRST HALCYONIAN: Really, we couldn't be less interested. But the answer to your question is no.

SECOND HALCYONIAN: I think so. His name, I believe, is Lar Luk. You could look him up in the city register.

FIRST HALCYONIAN: Well, Terra or whatever your name is, you won't sell any of those dohinkuses here.

Well, that's the conversation, boss. Half an hour later, the two Halcyonians got their breathing vents ruptured in the air-raid and died of strangulation. I'll bet you're glad I didn't sell those two policies!

Six weeks now without a sale. What's the matter with you? Getting soft? Homesick? Joanie is all right, I assure you. Hell's bells, man, IF YOU CAN PLANET-FALL, YOU CAN SELL. And by the way, you go right ahead and sell 'em. Let the boys in the actuary department worry about having to pay off immediately. We're sales, Sammy. Sales.

Why don't you go out into the grass roots somewhere, where this bird from Fomalhaut hasn't tried his hand? Maybe he's soured all the Halcyonians on life insurance with the wrong approach. Over-aggressive or something.

Buck up, Sammy. I've still got a little faith in you. Explore. Consider. Sweat. Sell.

I'm out here in Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle trying your suggestion about the grass roots. It's a small town, population under two thousand, without an important war industry. You'd think it would be safe from air-raids, but it's not. As I told you when I first reached Halcyon, they have no real reason for war. War is like a game with them. Their best bombers are sent out after hospital ships, I understand. 'Tennyrate, tomorrow I'm going to try my luck here in Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle.

Meanwhile, I have something of interest to report. Remember that guy I mentioned, Lar Luk, the insurance salesman from Fomalhaut? I met him in Halcyon City before I took the monorail to Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle, and we had a long talk.

I said, "I hope you don't think I'm poaching on your territory, Mr. Luk." I then turned down the translator to soft obsequious. "I assure you, that's not the way Terran Insurance operates. We didn't know you were here."

"That's quite all right," Lar Luk told me. "You can have the whole planet for all I care."

"Goodness, no. I had my savings shipped here to Halcyon and started a munitions plant. I'm making a fortune."

I next asked Lar Luk (translator on shocked voice) about his Company Loyalty. He said, "That's a lot of (CENSORED BY MY TRANSLATOR)! When in Rome, heh-heh...." It seems every civilized planet has an author who said something like "when in Rome, etc."

"You didn't happen to try the grass roots, did you?" I asked with my translator in indifferent because I didn't want Lar Luk to get the idea I was eager and maybe try it himself.

"Friend," admitted Lar Luk, "I tried everything. Without any success. Say, why don't you come into munitions with me? There's a whole colony of extra-halcyonian insurance salesmen going into munitions here. I could use a partner."

That ended our conversation. I'm going to cold-canvas Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle in the morning. I'll keep in touch.

XXX—SUBSPACEGRAM—XXX FROM HERMAN SPOTTSWORTH INTERSTELLAR DIVISION TERRAN INSURANCE COMPANY BALTIMEARTH XXX TO SAMMY TRUMPLE RMPLDECROIDESANSPERTXKLE HALCYON XXX DON'T GO GETTING ANY IDEAS FROM THIS LAR LUK FELLOW XXX REMEMBER YOUR COMPANY LOYALTY XXX REMEMBER OUR MOTTO XXX REMEMBER ALL THOSE PREMIUMS YOU HAVE TO PAY XXX THE CHIEF OF SALES WANTS RESULTS SOON XXX. I WANT RESULTS SOON XXX OTHERWISE HE'LL HAVE MY HEAD XXX I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD SPOTTSWORTH XXX TRANSMITTED VIA ALPHA CENTAURI SUBSPACE STATION XXX SEND FLOWERS BY SUBSPACE TO ANY PART OF MILKYWAY GALAXY AT NO EXTRA COST XXX QUARTERLY SPECIAL: ARCHENAR III DRAGON BLOSSOMS XXX ALPHACENT XXX

You don't have to worry about my company loyalty. But still, no sales. Unfortunately, half of Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle was wiped out yesterday in an air-raid. I'm lucky I came through it with a whole skin. I went through the hospitals and first aid stations to canvas what was left of the population. They're just not buying. They can't—or refuse to—grasp the meaning of life insurance. The following conversation is typical:

ME: But in a devastating war like this, you need protection. Most other insurance companies wouldn't issue policies under the circumstances. You can consider it an interstellar public service by Terran Insurance.

ME: Don't you have a family? Loved ones? People you'd like to see cared for after your—uh—that is, if you're suddenly not around to take care of the bills and things, if you....

ME: Statistics demonstrate that everyone wants the security of a life insurance policy.

So, that's the way it goes. I've had another idea, though. How does this strike you, boss? The local Army commander has his headquarters not far from Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle. Since the whole planet is under military rule because of the constant warfare, I figure if I can sell a policy to General Multacni, I could then sell every dogfoot in his command. How does the idea strike you?

Now you're firing away on all jets, boy! Now you're good Terran Insurance material. You're darned tooting, sell the general. We'll have it made after that.

P.S. I take back everything I may have said about you in haste, dear boy. You're A-1 Terran Insurance all the way. P.P.S. Joanie is languishing, she misses you so much. Make a couple of dozen sales to cover your expense account and we'll think about getting you home on the next ship.

MILITARY TWX FROM SUPREME COMMANDER HALCYON SUBDIVISION THREE CMM OFFICE OF MILITARY JUSTICE CMM TO CLN MR H SPOTTSWORTH CMM INTERSTELLAR DIVISION CMM TERRAN INSURANCE CMM BALTIMEARTH DASH PENDING TRIAL OR APPEAL OF YOUR STATE DEPARTMENT CMM WHICHEVER COMES FIRST CMM WE ARE HOLDING TERRAN CITIZEN S TRUMPLE UNDER PROVISIONS OF ARTICLE SEVEN CMM HALCYON CODE OF MILITARY JUSTICE PD PARA ARTICLE SEVEN READS CLN QUOTE ANY INDIVIDUAL ATTEMPTING SUBVERSION OF MORAL WELFARE OF OFFICERS OR ENLISTED MEN CMM THIS COMMAND CMM IS SUBJECT TO IMPRISONMENT FOR NOT MORE THAN TWENTY FIVE HALCYONIAN YEARS PD ENDQUOTE PARA PLEASE ADVISE PD PARA FOR THE COMMANDING GENERAL CMM LIEUT DASH MAJ ROG GO FURL CMM HALCYON SUBDIVISION THREE CMM OFFICE OF MILITARY JUSTICE PD END TWX

With Terran State Department approval, I am writing you in regard to the case of our employee, Mr. S. Trumple of Earth. With full State Department backing we insist that you permit Mr. Trumple to tell us, uncensored and in his own words, what has happened, in order that we may take steps to defend him as a citizen of Earth.

Lieutenant Major Roggo Furl informs me that I'm permitted to write you an uncensored letter. Boss, I'm in the dregs of despair. Please take good care of Joanie.

It's cold here in the stockade. The food stinks. The other prisoners are all Halcyonian military deserters. Get me out of here!

But I better calm down and try to tell you what happened from the beginning. As I already told you, I decided to try and sell General Multacni a life insurance policy. It took me two hours working my way through the chain of command before I could even get to see the General. When I finally did, I found myself facing a huge figure in military uniform—huge even by Halcyonian standards. General Multacni is probably nine feet tall.

At first he was courteous. He listened politely, taking time out every now and then to direct a bombing raid by radio, while I explained to him exactly what life insurance was and what he could expect from the Terran policy. Like everyone else on Halcyon, he said he didn't need life insurance.

"See here, sir," I said, translator polite but not obsequious. "War is dangerous business. You never know when your number is going to be up."

The General's office rumbled with laughter as he said, "Mr. Terran—" they all call me that "—I'm indestructible." As you probably know, that's a typical military career man's attitude. They all think they are indestructible. The other fellow will die in the trenches or the raids, not them. Even on Earth we have trouble selling our policies to the military.

I tried a different tack, the one approved for military customers on Earth. "Well, General," I said, "someday this war is going to be over. Someday you're going to retire to a farm somewhere in the good rich land around Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle. You'll raise chickens—" which the translator translated to the Halcyonian equivalent, of course "—and bounce your little grandchildren on your knee. And then, way off in the dim future, General, years and years from now after you've lived a rich, full life, you're going to succumb to natural causes. And, if not sooner—and we certainly hope it won't be sooner—that's when your family will need this insurance policy I have for you."

"Things can't be that bad," I consoled the General giving him my best you're-down-in-the-dumps-now-but-wait-till-later smile. "Maybe the enemy has you on the run just now, but you'll emerge victorious—you'll win—in the end." Of course, I would have told the same thing to General Multacni's opposite number in the opposing camp. I'm no authority on Halcyonian military matters, but under the circumstances it seemed the correct thing to say.

General Multacni stood up. "I must consider this interview at an end, Mr. Terran," he said frostily. "And I advise you to keep such subversive thoughts to yourself in the future. I'm a broad-minded Halcyonian, but—" And the General let his voice trail off ominously.

I figured he had battle fatigue, boss. Nobody could talk like that in his right mind, not even a general on a planet which is engaging in warfare almost constantly. Anyhow, I had to find out. Wandering through the military reservation on my way back to Rmpl, I chanced upon a non-commissioned officer's club. Here was the place to find out once and for all! I would speak to the NCO's who probably had families and probably were in danger of shipping out to the warfronts at any time.

I went inside and I spoke. Maybe I made too much like a soap box orator, I don't know. I don't know. I told them they would need insurance during the war, and after the war. I told them our policies would give them solace in these trying times, mitigating some of their worries during the necessary horrors of their struggle for existence. When finished, there wasn't a sound in the whole vast room. Boss, I thought we had them. I brought out a pad of policies and was ready to start scribbling names.

You know the rest. How I was taken to the subdivision stockades, given a medical exam (for some reason, a small slice of flesh was taken from my rump. I won't miss it, but I couldn't sit down for two days), told that I was being held under the provisions of article seven of some kind of code of military justice. Me, subversive. When all I want to do is sell insurance policies. Boss, please get me the heck off this nutty planet.

Please explain the charges under which Terran citizen Samuel Trumple is being held in military prison.

We hasten to respond to your note of yesterday and wish to thank you for the diplomacy, tact and patience you have displayed in this matter. We of Halcyon are firm believers in reincarnation of the individual after death, as you may know if you've read Stoy's ANTHROPOLOGICALLY SPEAKING: A Study of Sixty Seven Galactic Societies, or attended any of our religious services.

Now, since we believe in reincarnation (off the record, I'm a free-thinker, myself) and since every individual certainly can't be born with the proverbial silver feeder in his mandibles, death is an adventure eagerly anticipated by most Halcyonians, who have hopes that their station in life will be improved in their next incarnation, although they believe, of course, that they will maintain their individuality, their elan vital, if you wish, in the subsequent incarnation.

Terran Citizen Trumple was guilty of the worst sort of subversion when he spoke of an end to warfare. Naturally, there are some atheistic pacifists on Halcyon who would like to see war abolished and more people live out their current incarnations, but this dangerous minority is constantly hunted down. However, we recognize extenuating circumstances in the case of Terran citizen Trumple. He is, of course, unfamiliar with our way of life. That being the case, I have recommended to the military authorities that he be pardoned without trial. I will keep you informed.

Mr. Herman Spottsworth
Interstellar Division
Terran Insurance Company
Baltimore, Md., Earth

MEMO:
TO: The Commanding General
FROM: Lieut-Major Roggo Furl, Office of Military Justice
SUBJECT: The Terran Sammy Trumple

2. It is my feeling, though, that in the best interests of Halcyon, an example should be made of the Terran Trumple. The General realizes, I'm sure, that the colony of extra-halcyonians on Halcyon is growing. They must learn to consider Halcyonian culture as inviolate.

MEMO: TO: Lieut-Major Roggo Furl, Office of Military Justice
FROM: The Commanding General

1. Sorry, Furl. Trogonommo has more political friends than a Veterans' Legion Commander.

4. I'd like to suggest that Trumple be allowed to make an attempted escape. He can be killed while fleeing. That should teach everyone a lesson, Trumple included.

5. The details of this attempted escape are in your hands. I suggest you use Lar Luk of Fomalhaut as a go-between, however. And make sure Trumple is killed!

A few days ago, Lar Luk—the ex-insurance salesman from Fomalhaut—visited me at the stockade. You could tell something was going on because Luk, usually a loud extrovert, spoke in conspiratorial whispers.

"I am in a position to know. I think you're being treated unjustly, Sammy. I came here to do something about it."

Boss, I was desperate. Despite your encouraging note, I didn't know which way to turn. I said, "Like what?"

He clamped a flipper over my mouth before I could blurt out something which would give us away. I calmed down and said: "Can we do it?"

"Tonight, after I leave, after it's dark. I had to get special dispensation to visit you. They won't let me visit you again."

"But what ... how...." I'm no intriguer, boss. I felt like a pawn in this game—but a pawn who was about to be checkmated unless he did something about it.

"Here," said Lar Luk, thrusting something into my hand. "This is a Fomalhautian freezer, Sammy. You'll stop anybody dead in his tracks with it. When they come to your cell tonight and bring your meal...." Lar Luk didn't finish the sentence.

And Lar Luk was gone. I examined the weapon he had given me. It looked deadly, all right, with a dull metal finish and a wicked, funnel-like snout. I was ready, but I didn't see how I would get through the afternoon.

I tried to sleep. I couldn't. I tried to think of you and Joanie and what it would be like back on Earth. I couldn't concentrate. It grew dark slowly, the way it does on Halcyon. I thought they never would come with my supper. I thought they were starving me before the trial so I would confess readily. Then I began to think that maybe someone had seen Lar Luk give me the weapon. Perhaps the cell was wired and every word we said was heard in the stockade commander's office.

Then I heard footsteps in the corridor. It always sounds like more than one person, the Halcyonians having more legs than we do. I stood there at the door of my cell, waiting. I could feel my heart fluttering around inside me, like a bird.

At first I was going to use Lar Luk's weapon, but I didn't know what kind of noise it would make. He hadn't told me. Instead, I used the butt of the gun, banging it down across the guard's head. He slumped at my feet. I hoped I hadn't hurt him too badly. I even hoped Lar Luk's weapon was effective but not lethal. I had nothing against the Halcyonians. I just wanted to escape.

Out into the corridor I ran, passing three cross-corridors before I reached the stockade quadrangle. In the halls, I met no one. So far, I was lucky. But then....

I was trembling so much I had to hold Lar Luk's weapon in both hands to fire it. It made a noise like a siren.

You can imagine the pickle I was in, boss. The siren summoned more guards, who came at me from all directions. I tried to get away, pounding across the pavement of the quadrangle. From somewhere, a searchlight cut a bright yellow swath across the quadrangle. It found me and held me.

One of the guards fired a blaster, hitting me in the base of the skull and killing me instantly.

I'm glad you managed to get away, but quit pulling my leg, will you? So the guard killed you—and then you sat down and wrote me a letter. Please tell me what really happened.

By the way, I have great news for you. Joanie had a litter of four pups, all spotted brown and white and cute as the dickens. I'm sending two of them to you by Subspace Express.

This letter is being smuggled out to you by a friend because it never would pass the Halcyonian censor. They have a good thing and they want to keep it to themselves as much as possible and I can't blame them.

Thanks for sending along the pups. I'll be waiting for them. Give Joanie a pat on the head for me.

Incidentally, cancel all my insurance policies. And I quit the company, effective immediately. I'm staying here on Halcyon.

I wasn't pulling your leg, Hermie. You remember I told you a slice of flesh was taken from my rump at the stockade. That's how the Halcyonians have developed their reincarnation process. They've learned a way to duplicate an individual artificially using a sample of his hereditary genes from the slice of flesh. Every Halcyonian has his slice on file of course. The new embryo is then grown rapidly, in a matter of a few days.

Lar Luk and I figured it's about time heavy industry came to Rmpldecroidesanspertxkle. We're opening a new munitions factory here, which suits the Halcyonians fine. Most of them are in favor of war because they'd like to better their position in life and might do it next time around on the new incarnation.

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