Quiz Game
Fantastic Universe Science Fiction – September 1956
(1956)*
Eric Frank Russell

It's never easy for a Mally to masquerade as an Earthman. He must have superior cunning and a real flair for basic English!

-

	He paused a moment at the top of the big ship's ramp and had his first look at Earth. So this was the fabulous planet, the governing world of six hundred other worlds, the Eldorado of the cosmos. Well, what he could see of it looked good, plenty good. He was going to sneak into it and stay in despite their disapproval.

	Of course, they'd try to stop him in the same way they'd stopped many others of his kind. Here, they didn't want Malleables from the far frontiers of empire. They had barred the world to them, in effect placing over every entrance an invisible but vivid sign reading: MALLIES— KEEP OUT!

	Earthlings had their reasons. For instance, they believed that every individual should get by on his merits and therefore they objected to the way in which every Mally favored other Mallies.

	"Let a Mally get the chance to hire and fire," they'd say, "and he'll shove our kind out to get his own kind in." In addition, they did not like Mally fecundity. "Give them a foothold and they'll breed like flies."

	Yes, down there they were waiting for him. For once they were going to get a run for their money. Carson, a real, genuine Earthman, had trained him to beat their quiz game.

	It suited Carson mighty well to replace his local representative with a Mally, someone who didn't dare quibble and quarrel and answer back, someone who could be held to strict obedience by constant threat of betrayal and deportation. But it also suited him to play ball with Carson. On Earth he'd enjoy a standard of living far higher than could be gotten elsewhere. And sooner or later he might be able to open a back door for other Mallies.

	He was far and away the best prepared illegal immigrant to present himself in two hundred years. He had Carson's papers, Carson's face and fingerprints, Carson's answers to all possible questions. Even his accent had traces of Carson's place of origin.

	He knew his mentor's life story from childhood onward, could pick various relatives out of a line-up and be picked out by them, could discuss the old hometown familiarly and for hours on end. Could pass muster no matter what inquisitorial tricks they tried.

	Wearing the same expression of mixed relief and anticipatory pleasure shown by other passengers, he joined the stream down the ramp, went to the customs shed. Inside was the usual chaos with a dozen officers trying to handle a thousand people.

	The officers were speeding things up by relying a good deal upon psychology. They'd weigh up each potential smuggler, pass him on or search him according to what they thought of his or her face.

	About forty percent were picked upon, the others hustled onward. He was one of the unlucky ones. He edged along with the file of suspects, came in front of the twelve. One of them looked him over, narrowed his eyes.

	"Open up!"

	Dumping his luggage on the counter, he unlocked it. The officer rummaged through the lot from top to bottom, found nothing forbidden or dutiable. Registering faint disappointment, he tidied the contents, closed the lids, chalked his initials on the ends.

	"All right. Stack it over there under letter C. Collect it when you come out of the interrogation department."

	The Mally who was not Carson nodded, went to the farther wall on which the alphabet was painted at six-yard intervals, placed his bags under letter C. The line of now luggageless passengers snaked slowly into the next shed. He went with them, dutifully bearing the same air of suppressed impatience.

	He was entering the trap. It wasn't going to catch him.

	The set-up didn't look formidable. Twenty uniformed men sat at as many desks each fronted by a chair. They had forms on their desks, pens in their hands, and looked unutterably bored. Incoming passengers took chairs as their names were called. Each answered a long series of questions put by his particular interrogator, eventually got given an entry permit, went out to collect his luggage and go home.

	Nothing much to worry about there. The questioners were just a bunch of petty officials doing a routine job without visible enthusiasm. True, they'd grabbed every Mally who'd tried to get through since the ban was imposed. But that was no tribute to their cleverness. The stupid or inadequately prepared deserve to be caught.

	Waiting for his name to be called, he profited by studying the technique. The sole object of it was to determine whether or not the passenger was a genuine Earthling. A Mally's cartilage was opaque enough to fool X-rays into depicting a plausible skeleton and there was no physical way of identifying him short of cutting him open. But a Mally could be trapped if he didn't keep his wits about him or was insufficiently informed.

	The official at the tenth desk got rid of a passenger, shouted, "James George Glover."

	A fat man lumbered to the chair, sat down, looked resigned.

	"Place of birth?"

	"Allentown," said the fat man.

	"Date?"

	The fat man told him while the officer sought confirmation in a wad of papers.

	"When did you leave Earth?"

	"Four and a half years ago."

	"Who was mayor of Allentown at that time?"

	"Sid Westerman."

	And so it went on, plain, straightforward questions, trick ones, questions that implied untruths, questions that double-checked previous replies, questions that would tempt a non-Earthling to fall flat on his face.

	The officer had the ship's list, the passenger's documents, exit records, several large-scale maps, a number of reference books concerning cities, towns and villages. He consulted these frequently and did not ask a question until he'd already found the answer, thereby knowing at once whether any reply was right or wrong. An incorrect response would be pounced upon and exploited mercilessly, creating ultimate confusion and self-betrayal on the part of the victim.

	It was evident that the test did not rely solely upon ability to produce accurate replies. It also depended upon the promptness with which they were given. Too much delay, too much pondering and hesitation aroused immediate suspicion. Data gained from actual experience requires less response-time than data acquired by tuition. They knew that, so they watched not only for error but also for reluctance.

	He'd just had time to absorb these facts when the official at the fourth desk bawled, "Walter Henry Carson!"

	Despite earlier confidence he got a queezy feeling in his middle as he walked to the chair and sat. The officer looked him over with guileless blue eyes, saw nothing abnormal or suspicious.

	"Place of birth?"

	"Agnaville."

	"Date?"

	"March 18, 2114," said pseudo-Carson, glibly.

	There followed a dozen more questions, all innocuous and easily answered, then the questioner examined a book, asked, "What's the name of the river at Agnaviile?"

	"There isn't any river."

	Twenty questions later he inquired, "Whose statue is in Calhoun Square?"

	"General Mathieson's."

	"Standing or sitting?"

	"On horseback."

	So the questions continued.

	Finally, the officer appeared to slacken from sheer boredom. Placing fingertips together, he gazed at the ceiling as though in silent prayer.

	"You seem all right to me, Mr. Carson. But before you go I'd like to try you on a colloquialism. Any objection?"

	That was a trap in itself.

	"Not at all," said the Mally, feeling triumph rising inside him.

	"All right." Still studying the ceiling and looking blank-faced, the officer said, "You are in the engine-room of a big space-liner. In your hands you are holding a steel bolt fourteen inches long by two in diameter. It is heavy, a nuisance and you wish to get rid of it. Just then a space-mechanic comes along. He is rough and tough, with oil on his face and hair on his chest." The blue eyes lowered, looked him through and through. "Would you ask him what to do with it?"

	Fast, fast! No hesitation!

	"Of course."

	The eyes went several times more guileless. "And what answer would you expect?"

	"I assume that he'd tell me where to put it."

	"Dead right he would!" said the officer, with strange emphasis. He sat up, pressed a red stud.

	Two guards led mock-Carson away, took him aboard the ship, locked him in its calaboose. He was still staring at metal walls and trying to solve the puzzle three days later when the vessel took off for the frontier zone again.

	Once in free flight, they let him loose, gave him the run of the ship. At the halfway point he was in the bar and palled on with an exploring Earthling. After the fifth glass of firewater he put the issue fairly and squarely.

	"I am holding a steel bolt fourteen inches by two and don't know what to do with it. You tell me."

	Obligingly the other told him.

	The Mally was deeply shocked.

The End