Amazon Planet

I

There is something about a passenger freighter that is unchanging, down through the centuries. Be it a Phoenecian galley that sets bravely forth from Tyre with stops at Malta, Carthage, Tingis and Cadiz on the way to far Cornwall. Be it a motorship originating in Sydney and stopping off in Madras, Ceylon, Aden and Port Said on its way to Genoa. Or be it a spacecraft, burning off from Earth and orbiting in turn, Avalon, Kropotkin, Shangri-La and Amazonia as touching points en route to Phyrgia, man’s furthest frontier in his reaching toward the center of his galaxy.

Unlike on a liner, the freighter passenger is an afterthought. The cargo is the thing, the occasional traveler a secondary matter and a method of realizing a bit more on the trip, but nothing special. His needs can be met when more pressing matters have been disposed of.

He comes hesitantly aboard, often carrying his own luggage. A harried steward, with a thousand duties before departure, hustles him to his drab quarters, mumbles something about the location of the mess, the hour of the first meal aboard, and is gone.

There is the sinking feel of dismay. Is this to be home for the following long weeks? Is it too late to change plans? Couldn’t the budget be stretched to acquire more comfortable passage? Couldn’t…? But no, the die has been cast.

It is with a certain trepidation that he first sets foot into the dining-salon to meet his fellows and the officers of the craft that carries him. Guy Thomas, thirty-odd of years, medium of height, average of weight, less than handsome of face and with a vulnerable quality in his brown eyes, hesitated at the entry of the SS Schirra’s salon.

A lackluster steward, on the young side for a spaceman, Guy thought, was setting up. He shot the passenger a glance from the side of his eyes, grunted, and went on with his work.

Guy said, “I didn’t understand just when it was that…” He let the sentence dribble away.

The steward grunted.

Guy said, “I suppose I’m in the way. Is there any place I can locate some reading tapes, or…” He let that sentence fade too.

“You’re supposed to bring your own entertainment things,” the steward said. “You think this is some molly passenger ship, huh?”

Guy looked at him. “Sorry,” he said.

“Maybe some of the officers got some stuff you can borrow. They got lots of time on their hands. Nothing to do but sit in front of all them dials a few hours a day. You don’t see me with time to sit around reading. I shoulda gone in for deck candidate school.”

Guy said, “Is it too late?” The other was a weasel-like type, in a month of Tuesdays the traveler couldn’t have pictured him as an officer, a leader of men.

The steward finished with the table and stood erect. He scowled at the newcomer, possibly wondering if there was a crack intended in that last question.

“I wouldn’t want to be no molly officer,” he sneered. Neither of them had noticed the newcomer who said now, from the door. “A what kind of officer, Happy?”

The steward’s eyes darted, but relief came into them immediately. He said grudgingly, “Yes, sir. I was just telling this here passenger, maybe he could get some reading tapes from some of you officers.”

“Happy,” the other announced pleasantly, “you’re not only the laziest cloddy aboard but a lying funker in the bargain.” The ship’s officer, two gold stripes on his sleeve, grinned at Guy Thomas. “That reading tape thing applies only to deck officers. Engineers can’t read.”

He was cheerfully outgoing, about Guy’s own age though some forty pounds his senior and already tending to a bit of German goiter around the waist, a heaviness about the jowls.

Guy said, “My name’s Thomas. Guy Thomas. I’m one of the passengers.”

The deck officer shook easily. “That makes you fifty percent of the list then. There’s only one other.” He hauled a heavy envelope from a pocket. “I might as well get this over with. Sit down and we’ll twist Happy’s arm until he brings us some coffee. I’m the second on the Schirra and one of the duties they shuffle off on the second is the paper work involved in passengers. No purser on a kettle the size of the Schirra”

He had plopped himself down at a table even as he spoke. “My name’s Rex. Rex Ravelle. I’m an easy going slob. Even cloddies like Happy, here, haven’t any respect for me. If all the officers were like old Rex, the ship’d go to pot, eh Happy? Holy Jumping Zen, how about that coffee, fella?”

Happy grunted sourness and left.

Rex Ravelle looked up from the papers he was drawing from the folder and looked after the little steward for a moment, shaking his head. “What is it about the eternal yoke?” he said.

Guy had taken a chair to one side of the ship’s officer. He said, “Do you mean to tell me there’s only two passengers aboard?”

“That’s right,” Ravelle said. “And I hate to be blunt, fella, but the other one’s better looking than you are.” He scanned one of the papers. “Let’s see. Her name’s Patricia O’Gara and she’s going to…well, well…Amazonia, huh. Doesn’t look the type. Well, let’s see. What’s your own destination? Have you taken care of whatever landing technicalities apply? Visas? Shots? What citizenship do you carry?”

Guy said, “I’m going to Amazonia, too. I’m from Earth. Citizen of United Planets. All papers in order.”

But Rex Ravelle was staring at him. Amazonia! Are you drivel-happy?” His eyes rapidly scanned the other’s ticket. “Zen, you are!”

Guy said, “What’s the matter?”

“The matter ? No man ever sets down on Amazonia.” He was goggling at the passenger as though dumbfounded.

Another officer, a one striper, entered the small salon. “How about sorne coffee?” he said. “Where’s Happy?”

He couldn’t have been more than in his early twenties, and had a freshness about his open face that hinted he needed to shave but once or twice a week.

Ravelle said, “Hey, Jerry, Citizen Thomas, here, guess where he thinks he’s going? Amazonia.”

Jerry looked from one of them to the other. “Amazonia? The old man wouldn’t let him land there; He wouldn’t have the heart.”

Guy said, in growing perplexity. “What do you mean, I think I’m going? You’ve got my ticket. It’s in order. You put in at Amazonia, don’t you?”

“We orbit the planet,” Ravelle told him earnestly. “We don’t set down. If there’s any cargo being dropped, they send up lighters for it. No, sir, we don’t set down on Amazonia and neither does any other spaceship.”

Happy came in with the coffee, grumbling still, but passed it around to the three of them.

Jerry took a seat next to Rex and across from the passenger. “Nobody lands on Amazonia.” He dropped a pellet of sweetner in his beverage and stirred as though in agitation at the very idea.

There was an element of mild irritation in the voice of Guy Thomas. “Look,” he said. “You just told me the other passenger was going there too.”

“But that’s a girl, or at least a woman,” the second officer said, as though that explained everything.

Guy looked from one of them to the other. “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate are you talking about?”

They leaned forward, ignoring their coffee in their earnestness. Both began to speak, but the senior officer took the conversation, overriding the one striper.

“Listen, that planet’s a matriarchy. Women run the place.”

“Well, I know that, of course. What’s it got to do with me? I’m a resident of Earth. A citizen of United Planets.”

“Sure, fella, but the moment you set foot on Amazonia you come under the jurisdiction of old Hippolyte and her government, or Myrine and hers, and then, fella, you’ve had it.”

He pecked at the table top with his forefinger for emphasis. “Under Articles One and Two of the United Planet Charter neither Earth, as the planet of your birth, nor even UP itself, can interfere with the internal affairs of Amazonia. And once you land of your own free will, you’re under their jurisdiction.”

Guy was completely flabbergasted now. “But what could they do? I’m going there on a strictly business deal.”

“What could they do?” Terry interjected, as flabbergasted as Guy himself. “Suppose one of those brawny mopsies took a shine to you? You’d wind up in a harem and spend the rest of your life there.”

“Harem?” Guy said blankly.

“Harem,” Rex echoed. “You know what a harem is, don’t you?”

“I thought I did. Under polygamy, it’s a man’s collection of wives. Well, I guess it included the children and his women relatives too.”

Rex said sarcastically, “Well, under polyandry it’s the same thing, only different.”

“You mean…”

Jerry said, “Yes.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

There was a silence during which he stared at them.

Rex Ravelle said finally, “I wouldn’t want to see even an engineer set down on Amazonia. Zen, I wouldn’t wish it on Happy, here.”

“All right, all right,” Happy whined. “Very funny.” He snorted and looked at Guy Thomas. “But the seconds right. Haven’t you never heard of Amazonia? A man’s got no rights there.”

Rex said, “It was settled by a bunch of women crackpots two or three centuries ago.”

“Feminists,” Guy said. “I know about that, of course.”

The second officer leered. “No men at all.”

Happy said, “But they had to have some men.”

Rex Ravelle said, “Artificial insemination. They took frozen sperm along. Of course, about half the kids were born male, but the old biddies were ready for them. By the time they grew to adulthood, they had reins around their necks. Education, customs, even religion, I guess, had them all prepared to be the weaker sex.”

“Weaker sex?” Guy Thomas said—weakly. “Listen, how come more of this information isn’t available in the literature I read up on back on Earth?”

The second officer spread his hands. “It’s the most secretive world in United Planets. They don’t give out much information. And they don’t want any thing to do with the other worlds.

“Well…what else do they do?”

“Look, what’s the most restrictive government you ever heard about? Back in history, or in existence now, or whenever?”

“Why, off hand, I don’t know.” The dismayed passenger ran his hand back through his hair.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s worse on Amazonia, at least for men. You’re not allowed to own property. Only women can. You have no vote. You have no rights before the law, except through your wife.”

“Suppose you’re not married?”

“You haven’t got any rights at all, until you’re married. You’ve got to be married, as soon as you’re not a child any more. You’ve got to be under the wing of some female or other.”

“This is getting ridiculous. I’m going there for business. I’ll just be there for a short time. They want this business deal as much as my clients do. They’re not interested in throwing me into some harem. I think you’re feeding me a lot of jetsam.”

Rex Ravelle came to his feet, finished the coffee, which by this time had grown cold, and shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, fella. For your own good, I hope the skipper doesn’t let you land.” He had checked the passengers papers even as they had talked, now he handed them back to the other.

He was turning to go when a new voice snapped, “Just a moment, Ravelle!”

The three of the ships company and the now bewildered passenger turned.

She was standing in the entry, her eyes flashing. Since grammar school days, Guy Thomas had read on the fiction tapes of persons whose eyes were flashing. He had always wondered what flashing eyes looked like. Now he knew. Her eyes were flashing.

If it hadn’t been for her odd, ultra-conservative dress, he would have snap-decided that she was as attractive a young curve as he had seen for many a day. Well, not as young as all that. She must be at least in her mid-twenties. It wasn’t only her dress, either. She was innocent of cosmetic, even a smidgeon of lipstick, and her hair, unfashionably long, by Earth standards, was done up in a pile at the back of her neck. Attractive, he grudgingly admitted, but, well, all but prehistoric so far as style went. It was a good face, though, you had to admit that. Angry and aggressive now, and handsome rather than pretty—wide mouth, a well shaped nose to go with it, wide apart and sparking blue eyes.

The second officer, taken aback, blinked at her. “Ah, Miss O’Gara.”

“And don’t call me Miss I object to the term in both meanings of the word. The word mistress, from which the term Miss is derived, is the feminine of master, and I want to be no one’s master any more than I want anyone to be mine. And so far as the other definition is concerned, I am no man’s mistress and will never be, nor his wife either. I hope that’s clear.”

“Say that again?” Jerry muttered, only a hint of derision in the backgound.

She spun on him. “Sarcasm doesn’t particularly become anyone who’s been uttering the blithering jetsam you have, whatever-your-name-is.”

Jerry came to exaggerated attention. “Gerald Muirhead, Third Deck Officer, S.S. Schirra, at your orders, ah, Citizeness—is it all right to call you Citizeness, ah, Citizeness O’Gara?”

She snorted and turned back to Rex and Guy.

She demanded of the second officer, “What in the name of Zen is your purpose in filling this poor cloddy…”

“Hey,” Guy protested mildly.

“…full of your masculine prejudices against Amazonia? Hasn’t there been enough snide propaganda promulgated against the sole member planet of all United Planets with a rational government?”

“Zen!” Jerry said, “Promulgated, yet. I’d love to sit in on this, but I’m going on watch. Gentlemen, I leave you to Miss, uh, that is, Citizeness O’Gara’s mercies.”

He left, leaving behind Guy and Rex, and an apprehensive looking Happy, who had retired into the furthest background, to face the indignant feminine passenger.

Rex Ravelle said, in a weak attempt at placation, “Uh, sorry if I’ve offended you, Citizeness. I was only repeating to Citizen Thomas what is commonly known throughout the system.”

Her eyes were still sparking, and then she put her hands on her hips in a stance of indignation so stereotyped that the most tyro of Tri-Di performers would never have dared it.

“Commonly known, eh?” she snapped. “What jetsam hasn’t been blathered behind that aegis down through the centuries, eh? Jews controlled practically all the wealth. Negroes were less intelligent than whites because they have thicker skulls. Amerinds couldn’t be allowed to drink because they couldn’t hold their firewater. Scandinavians were slow-minded and Japanese were good at copying but weren’t inventive. Englishmen had no sense of humor, the French were sex mad and the Americans would sell their mother to make a fast buck.”

Guy looked from one of them to the other. The girl metamorphosed from handsome to beautiful when in the flush of argument. He held his own peace.

Rex Ravelle was not of the temperment to remain under attack without rising to the fray.

“Aw, now look,” he protested, holding a hand up in attempt to stem her tirade. “I’m not as flat as all that. I’ve been around. I’ve met people who’ve been on Amazonia. I’ve met, oh, a dozen or more of these Amazons.”

She simmered down a fraction. “Have you ever landed there yourself?”

“Well, no, but I’ve met port officials, customs officers, and also the pilots, crews and longshoremen who crew the lighters.”

“But you’re still spreading cheap rumors about male harems and such jetsam!”

Rex turned to Happy, still performing make-work in the background while he gaped in fascination at the war of words going on between officer and passenger. Oh, they’d love this down in the crew’s mess later on. For once, Happy Harrison would hold the center of the stage.

“Happy,” Rex called, “bring us some more coffee, eh?” Then, “Citizeness, let’s sit down and go at this more reasonably. You’re headed for Amazonia yourself, aren’t you? Do you mind my asking why?”

She glared at him still, for a moment, then quickly took the nearest chair. Guy, who had stood, upon her arrival, sat himself again as well.

Patricia O’Gara snapped, “I’m an anthropologist. Well, an ethnologist, really,” as though that explained all. She looked at Guy Thomas. “These men have been joshing you with this fling. Amazonia is the most advanced planet in the confederation.”

“By what standards?” Ravelle said sarcastically.

She turned her wrath on him again. “By any intelligent ones! The only true matriarchy in United Planets.”

It occurred suddenly to Guy Thomas that the S.S. Schirra was spaceborne. So engrossed had he become in the debate that he had failed to notice the low throb that denoted engines at strain.

“Zen!” he said. “We’re on our way. You know, it’s my first time in space.”

The second officer looked at him sourly. “And if you land on Amazonia, it might well be your last. You’ll be lucky to get off again.” He turned to Patricia O’Gara before she could say anything to that. “And if you disagree, I speak from experience. Never in the ten years I’ve been on this run have I ever known of a case of a man leaving the planet for elsewhere.”

She scowled unhappily at him, but managed to retort. “Are you sure that isn’t because the citizens of Amazonia don’t want to leave, that they’d rather remain on their own world, which they find more disirable than any alternative?”

Ravelle leaned back in his chair as the steward served them with the fresh coffee he’d requested. “I didn’t say I’d never seen a citizen of Amazonia leave the planet, I said I hadn’t seen any men leave it. On several occasions we’ve picked up women headed back to Earth as embassy personnel, or even to some other planet on rare trade missions.” He spoke the next sentence more slowly. “But I’ve never seen, or heard of, a man who was allowed to…escape.”

She took several deep breaths, half opened her mouth as though to respond, but closed it again. But she hadn’t given up the battle. Guy Thomas could see that. She was simply building up steam.

The Schirra’s second officer bored in. “You still haven’t mentioned why you’re going to Amazonia, Citizeness.”

“I’ve told you I was an ethnologist. All my life I’ve studied the origins of man, societies and cultures and particularly political and socioeconomic institutions from the most primitive, up to and including the most recent.”

“What’s that got to do with Amazonia?”

“Just this. When I decided to escape the planet of my birth…”

Ravelle looked down at the papers before him. “Victoria,” he said.

“…I took plenty of time deciding what alternative world I would choose to make my home. Amazonia stood head and shoulders above all others.”

Guy Thomas frowned and spoke for practically the first time since she had entered. “Victoria,” he said. “I’ve heard of that planet. One of the first hundred or so colonized.”

She looked at him scornfully. “Victoria. Named after some silly queen back in the old days on Earth. A period when man’s domination over woman had reached a particularly ridiculous height. Man was the brains, man was the head of the family, man was the breadwinner. Only the exceptional woman was thought to have enough sense to be worth educating at all, beyond simple reading and writing. No, her place was in the home, in the kitchen, in the nursery. She was supposedly a child that had to be taken care of by her husband, her lord.”

“Victoria,” Ravelle murmured. “Don’t think I’ve been there.”

“Lucky you,” she snapped. “The colonists fled Earth because the institutions they favored were being thrown into the wastebasket. Women were beginning to recover some of the ground they had lost. This was simply unbearable to the Victorians. Their only answer was to migrate to some new world where they could continue their antiquated customs. Victoria! where any new ideas, where the slightest of changes, are anathema.”

Guy said, “Well, you seem to have risen above it. I thought you said they discouraged women obtaining an education.” The girl and her strong opinions fascinated him. On the surface, at least, he wouldn’t have seemed to be one to hold overly hard to his own beliefs. The impression he gave was of one who would flow with the current, and the swifter it flowed, the more readily. Not for him to contradict, or insert his own mild opinions when the controversy grew hot.

She took him in, again, as though wondering if it was worthwhile answering. Then, “Even in the so-called Victorian period, back on Earth, with all its crushing of feminine inititive, some were strong enough to rise above its restrictions. Scientists such as Curie, novelists such as Sand, Austen and the Brontes, medical pioneers such as Nightingale, politicians such as Victoria herself, rebels such as Carrie Nation.”

“You seem to be up on the period,” Rex Ravelle said wryly.

“Why not I took the same stand myself. Against parents, relatives, friends…” she hesitated only briefly, “…against any men of my acquaintance who might ordinarily have been potential husbands.” Her voice was bitter now. “In the eyes of all, I desexed myself by refusing to become a chattle in some man’s kitchen.”

Quiet Guy Thomas might be, without imagination he was not. Into his mind flashed the long years this less than hefty girl must have put in bucking the tides of her native culture. The rejection of the femininities, the aggressive effort to hold her own in a world made for men.

Rex Ravelle said, “So now you think you’re fleeing to Utopia. You’re swinging the pendulum to the other extreme, eh? Amazonia where no men dominate and men are the weaker sex. Well, at least it’s admittedly different. On one world or the other, in United Planets, they’re trying every political theory, every socioeconomic system, even every religion ever dreamed up by man.” He shrugged as he shuffled the papers before him, as though indicating that she was free to choose her own poison, if she would.

But Pat O’Gara’s voice was snappish again. “You sound as though the Amazonian ideal is a new one, as though a matriarchy is a brand new idea dreamed up by some offbeat yokes.”

Her answer had been to Rex Ravelle, but Guy said mildy, “I understand that there’s various mention in early myths of the Amazons, but, well, it’s not exactly historical, is it? It was all back before Homer’s day, along with centaurs and the Golden Fleece, the Trojan War, and all.”

He winced, in anticipation, as she drew in her breath to blast.

But it was Rex Ravelle who spoke next. He had been fussing over the ship’s papers pertaining to Guy Thomas and Patricia O’Gara, the sole passengers. Guy’s matter had already been finished with, her papers were in the second officer’s hands.

He rapped in interruption, “Miss O’Gara! You have no exit visa from your home planet, Victoria!”

She flushed, but not exactly in anger, this time. She said, “I told you I was a refugee from the world on which I was born.”

“But that’s not the worst. Do you realize that you have no visa to land on Amazonia?”