“What a weird and wonderful place,” thought Owen Black as he stretched back in his comfort chair reading The Journal of Mekbutan Scientists.  He was humoring himself, for Upper Uranian technology was well beyond his grasp.

     A buzzer rang, and Hamal, a Uranian in charge of his comfort, entered.  “Can I get you anything?” he asked softly, picking up an empty glass.  Black shook his head.

     “Everything's fine.  Nothing could be better,” he replied.

     “Wonderful,” said the Uranian, filling the glass with cherula, a sweet native wine.  “If you desire anything, please let me know.”

     “You bet,” Black said.

     Hamal left and he sipped the drink, thinking “This is Utopia.”

     And indeed it was, at least from what he had seen so far.  Every Uranian he saw appeared to be exquisitely happy and contented.  Each dream was a reality and reality was anything the mind could conceive, thanks to the plethora of machines the old ones had created for the alteration of both mass and climate.  The planet, once a frozen and barren wasteland with only small pockets of inhabitable space, had been molded into a lush, fertile paradise in the short span of just fifteen thousand years.  Black had seen the monstrously huge control stations that powered the solar heat collectors on each of the planet's fifteen moons to gather precious energy from the sun and convert it into heat and light.  He marveled at how a planet so distant from the sun could support life so comfortably.  They'd never believe him back home!  Living was tough for the old ones, so it was said, but they had survived many hardships and turned their world into what it was now: a utopia, the ultimate victory of technology.

      Three Uranians sat in another room, discussing their problem.  One was Ben Arnold, a co-worker who had astounded Black just two weeks prior by revealing that he had a spaceship and that he frequently visited the inhabitants of Uranus.  The other two were both Uranians, Hamal and Alhena, the two top officials on the planet and joint heads of the complex in which he was staying.

     “He doesn't suspect a thing,” Arnold said.

     “Very good, brother Elnath,” replied Alhena.  “Let's give him his sleep period and then we'll take him around to the control room.  I hope we will not have to be too hard on him.  He seems like a nice fellow.”

     “Earthlings are so inferior,” interrupted Hamal.  “So inefficient.  Take this ‘sleep period', for example.  One third of their lives is consumed in such folly.  Why do we need one of them to do this job in the first place?”

     “You know damned well,” Alhena snapped.  “Somebody has to repair the machines.  They're running down and we've lost the capacity to fix them.  They've already begun to deteriorate.  Gentlemen, we've discussed this a hundred times.  Our minds have become dormant from lack of use.  Once we had control over our machines, we knew how to program them, but we became lax.  We've become inferior through lack of stimulation.  You know that.”  Hamal still protested.  Alhena went on, “Yes, we can learn.  We don't need an Earthling to do our dirty work.  Besides, it's downright embarrassing.”

     “Then how come you couldn't repair the solar console yourself?” Arnold, or Elnath as Black now knew him, asked.

     “I didn't have enough time,” Hamal said quietly.  “I couldn't understand the old manuals so I had to try to figure out everything for myself.  I'd have gotten it in time.  Anyway, the problem seems to have corrected itself.  One has to figure out what makes all that machinery tick before fixing it.”

     “And did you?” teased Alhena.

     “Um…no.”

     “Then we need the Earthling,” Alhena asserted.  “It would be a shame not to use him after Elnath so cleverly got him here.  He may balk at first but he'll work out fine.  With the proper incentives…”

     All three laughed loudly and left the room.

      Black paid keen attention to everything he was shown in the huge room.  Computers the size of houses worked away, their lights blinking off and on in some indiscernible code.

     “Everything that happens on this planet, all we do, has some connection with this room,” Alhena explained.  “As you know, it is possible for anyone to alter the climate of his land and house almost instantly.  All he needs to do is tie into this computer bank over here.”  He gestured toward a row of mammoth machines.  “In addition, every Uranian on the planet gets his food and drink by a simple call to the large computer complex way in the back.  The food may be synthetic but it's quite good.”

     “It is,” Black agreed, thinking of the wine in particular.

     “Computers control our lives,” Alhena continued proudly.  “They regulate our atmosphere, collect the heat we need, and provide us with the satisfaction of our every whim.  This is the nerve center of everything we are.”

     “And is the shield around the planet controlled in here, too?” broke in Black curiously.

     Alhena frowned.  “As a matter of fact, it is.  The machine that does that is underneath us.”

     “This idea of shielding is fascinating business,” Black said.   “Ben explained it to me on the trip here.  I'd like to read up on it.”

     “I don't think that will be possible,” Alhena replied quickly.  “The papers that deal with the operation of our shield are top secret, for it has proven to be our savior time and again.  Benjamin doubtless told you of the Vegan War and our glorious victory.”

     “He did,” said Black.

     “It was a great moment in our history.  Through sheer craft and genius our ancestors defeated an armada of bloodthirsty Vegans and drove them back to their hell planet, where they belong.  The shield was constructed in the aftermath of that conflict so as to make future invaders believe that our world had somehow turned into a dead, gaseous wasteland, like the other planets in this part of the Solar System.  Nobody has come since then.  Even your Voyager probe thought the planet was nothing but a big ball of gas.  It was most amusing for us to watch your scientists examine their data.”  He chuckled.  “But the secret of the shield is ours and ours alone.  It wouldn't be in anyone's best interests to reveal too much about it.”

     “It would be a nice gesture to give him what he wants,” said a voice from behind them.  It was Altair, the only workman in the entire complex.  “He's from Earth.  Surely not thought harmful.”

     “If you believe so, it shall be done, brother Altair,” Alhena said with false joviality.  “As for me, I grow weary.  It is embarrassing to admit, but we Uranians sometimes need sleep, too.  Besides, my colleagues and I have an important meeting to attend.  Mr. Arnold will be speaking on the state of political affairs on your planet.  It's very amusing stuff.  We'll need all our rest before hearing that.  I'll leave you with Altair.  He knows his way around, better than any of us.”

     “So you think this is Paradise, eh?”  Altair said.

     “Yes,” said Black.  “I could spend my whole life here, fulfilled.”

     Altair frowned and told him of the Council's plan.  Black was stunned.  “Surely you're mistaken…” he began, but the look on Altair's face told him he was not.

     “I wish I was,” the Uranian said sadly.  “But you're doomed to be a slave in Utopia for the rest of your life unless you act soon.  Quick, we must plan, while there is still time.”

     “Why would you help me?” Black asked cautiously.  If Altair was correct, he'd yet to encounter a Uranian who told the truth.

     “The ways of our planet are repulsive to me.  Look around at these machines.  You know what they are?  Junk!  They've sapped our intelligence and made us dull.  We've turned into a static race of sloths because these things do everything for us.  Most call it Utopia, but I call it hell.  You know what the difference between Utopia and Hell is?”

     “No,” admitted Black.

     “Not much, my friend.  Always remember that.”

     “You can get me back home?” Black asked, still not sure if he should trust this Uranian.

     “Indeed I can,” replied Altair.  “You see, I harbor more knowledge than the High Council thinks I do.  My father was an Earthling, so my mind is not soft, like the others.  I alone have the capacity to fix these machines.  I repaired the solar console recently.  They think it miraculously fixed itself—the fools!  I can operate a spacecraft, too.  My brother and I used to ride all over Koniker when we were young.”

     “Do what you can, my new friend,” Black said, realizing he was placing blind faith in this man, but also acknowledging that this might be his only way out.  “But you'll be condemning yourself by coming to my aid, no?”

     Altair shrugged.  “On Uranus, yes.  My name will not be treated kindly by history here.  But I long for life on a planet such as yours.  Elnath disguised himself there for years, and he's an idiot.  I can do the same.  They may come after us, but it will do them no good.  We'll change our features so we won't be recognized.”

     “But my family won't, either,” Black protested.  “Nobody will, for that matter.”

     “You could always stay and be a slave in Utopia for the rest of your life.”

     Black sighed.  “Not much of a choice.”

     “Any fate is better than this,” the Uranian said matter-of-factly.

     Altair and Black talked in hushed whispers while Hamal, Elnath and Alhena discussed the slave's future.  “I say we start him working when Altair finishes giving him the tour,” Hamal started off.

     “He may need a sleep period before beginning,” cautioned Elnath.  “We should give him one more before starting him off.”

     “Nonsense,” snapped Hamal.  “We don't have the time for such charades.  The machines will not wait.  This is a serious situation….”

     “Which must be handled with care,” admonished Alhena.

     “Agreed, brother Alhena.  But what harm will it do to start him off now?”

     “Human beings are strange,” sighed Alhena.  “Let's go with Elnath's plan.  He knows the race best.  One more sleep period it is.”

     “Yes, brother Alhena,” whined Hamal.  “You are the leader.”

     “Don't forget that.”

     The remainder of Black's day consisted of a tour of Damur, a residential village of several thousand.  It stretched for almost two thousand square miles; space was no problem on Uranus.  Black saw relatively few natives, and those he did see were all engaged in one sort of leisure or another. 

     Despite a rapidly growing dislike for his hosts, he was amazed by their world.  There was no disease, no hunger, no want, no work for most people, and no discontent.  But he also recalled what Altair had told him: there is little difference between Utopia and Hell. 

     He retired after yet another lavish meal of synthetic food.  A number of manuals were piled up in his room when he returned.  He took a curious glance through several of them.

     “Sheer genius,” he muttered more than once while skimming the papers.  He read well into his sleep period despite the fact that he was quite weary. 

     Earlier than he wanted, three Uranians he had never seen before came in and woke him from a light sleep.  “Come with us,” one said sternly.  Black noted side-arms the likes of which he had never seen, and decided not to argue.  He feigned surprise.

     He was led to the control room, where Alhena informed him of his duties.  Elnath was a conspicuous absentee.  After receiving his instructions, Black decided to test his strength, or lack thereof.

     “I'd love to help you, but it will take an awfully long time to learn everything I need to know,” he began.  “I have a family and a job back on Earth which beckons to me.”

     “Your family is here, and your job is to fix the machines,” Alhena said coldly.  “You will remain here until you finish, then you will be allowed to leave.”  It was a lie.  “Altair will be your assistant.  He knows what's going on.”

     “Indeed he does.  But in all due respect, I shall have to decline.  I respect your predicament, but I do not wish to be your savior.”  Altair smiled ever so briefly.  “I have a life I'm happy with on Earth.  All are free here; as a free man, I wish to go.”

     Alhena frowned.  “Maybe we can change your mind.”  The security guards pointed weapons.  Black understood.  “Work should commence at once.”

     “Machines, the whole lot of them,” fumed Altair when they were alone.  “They make me ill.  This is a land of machines.  We talk like machines, act like them, think like them, hell, we even play like machines.  You've noticed that everybody's happy.”

     “Everyone but you.”

     “That's because they're too stupid to know anything else.  Sure, we have our utopia here and security, but look what we gave up for it.  There are no words for ‘sad', ‘distressed', ‘love', or any other such concept in our language any more.  We're all programmed for material happiness and fulfillment, even our leaders.  Thank God I broke free.”

     The next couple of weeks were passed like centuries, or so it seemed to Black, in terms of both the wait and the knowledge he gained.  He hoped that maybe he could use some of that learning back on Earth, but Altair admonished him against that.

     “Somehow somebody will find an evil use for all this science,” he said.  “Learn from your recent history.  Earth is still much too barbaric.”

     Black had to agree with him.

     The two worked side by side without guards, as Altair was trusted by the High Council.  The Uranian even fixed a couple of things and attributed the repair work to Black, whom he described as “a true genius of machinery”, to the council's delight.  The two calmly waited until the great festival of Mekbutan.  Then they would act…

 

     “Won't you join us in another cherula?” called Alhena cheerfully to Black.

     The leader had already had several too many.  He and the other members of the High Council were even higher than usual.

     “I'm sorry, brother Alhena,” Black replied, according to plan.  “I'm near solving the temperature control problem, and I'd like to do some more work on it today.”

     Alhena was pleased with his slave.  “As you wish.  But do return for a few more drinks.”

     Black returned a few minutes later with Altair. 

     “Brother Alhena, there's a serious problem with the solar heat collector on Moon Six,” the Uranian said.

     “Is it bad?” slurred the drunken leader.

     “It's quite serious,” replied Altair.  “Black says he thinks he knows how to fix it, but we'll have to go up to effect repairs.”

     “Do it,” Alhena said, raising a glass to his lips.

     “It will be done,” Altair said.

     Though the Uranians are somewhat mechanical in their personalities, they do enjoy a good festival, and they don't skimp in their celebrations.  This was particularly true at the Mekbutan affair.  Altair and Black waited patiently for the fireworks display.  The laser was hardly noticed as it penetrated the shield, unlocking the door to freedom.

     “Sector one point nine eight will be open for twenty-three jingtums,” Altair said, pointing to the waiting spacecraft.  “Hop in.”

     The liftoff attracted much attention from the festival-goers.  Alhena drunkenly explained to anyone who would listen (and, being who he was, he had everyone listening) that the craft was on a divine mission for the common good of every citizen.  The crowd cheered the two renegades as they sailed towards freedom.

     Black's home town buzzed about the mysterious disappearances of Ben Arnold and himself.  Condolences were passed on to Mrs. Black the next month when police found what they believed to be the unrecognizable bodies of the two washed up in the river.  Mrs. Black stunned the community by marrying one Robert White just four months later.  White had many similar characteristics to her “late” husband; he even succeeded in landing the job vacated by Black.  Arnold's death was more or less shrugged off by the townsfolk; after all, he was “a strange man with many queer habits”.  The Uranians sent a recovery mission to nab their flown technicians, but no trace of either Black or Altair could be found.  They simply found another guinea pig, an older technical chief in the navy with no next of kin.  He worked out fine.

     White turned on his television one January evening twenty-four years later.  He was worried about world political conditions.

     “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States,” a voice boomed, and Thomas Murphy stepped up to the podium.  White listened keenly as the President discussed the nation.

     “And since I've come into office, the nuclear threat has been diminished,” he heard Murphy say.  “But that's not enough.  I am calling for the abolition of nuclear weapons, and I look to the day when we will all be united as one and the nuclear threat will be an embarrassing but finished chapter in our history.”

     “Such a world would be a Utopia,” said one reporter, raising his hand.  “Surely you don't think you can create a utopia out of what we've got?  Others have tried and failed.  It can't be done.”

     Murphy smiled.  “Who needs a utopia?  It is not truly possible for all, and I wouldn't want one even it if was.  Do you know the difference between Utopia and Hell?”

     “No,” replied the newsman.

     “Very little,” said Murphy.

     White's jaw dropped.  “Altair,” he said.  He went to bed that night knowing the world, and his grandchildren, who didn't know he was their real grand-dad, would be safe.