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                           Pink Grass Planet

                           by Sam Merwin Jr.


_In offering this delightful new Sam Merwin story to you we may be
inviting just about the worst disaster that could befall an editor of
a science-fantasy magazine. For, given man’s eternal restlessness and
his all-too-frequent subservience to fads and fancies, the tragedy so
vividly depicted here may someday come true. Then we’ll be accused
of being an accessory before the fact, and suffer the harsh fate of
prophets everywhere. A dire risk, truly!_

=A man may grieve his heart out for a paradise left behind. But five
short years of human folly may make that world a nightmare.=




The starship landed at night. When Ricardo Webb stepped out on the
ramp, the first thing he did was take a deep breath of the sharp,
strange-familiar air of Earth. When he exhaled, in the glow of the
fluorescent field-lamps, he could see a little cloud of vapor emerge
and dissipate quickly against the brisk November night.

He told himself he would never curse a terrestrial winter again. After
five years in the tepid showerbath air of Lri-gTu-riANa, he even looked
forward to shoveling snow. This was Earth, this was home--and it felt
good to be back. Better than good, in fact.

He stared about him, searching for a warmth and a radiance that would
make his happiness complete. Then Carla spun out of the whirling group
of reporters, officials and just plain people who had come to meet
the starship, and flung herself into his arms. “Ricci, darling!” She
whispered, twisting her pretty face so that her lips met his almost
vertically.

He thought, _I’ll have to do something about that_. He held her
supple softness off at arm’s length and said, “Do I know you?”

“Idiot!” She laughed and kissed him again. “Come on,” she said.
“Mother’s cooking a turkey, and dad can’t wait to ask you about fishing
on Liguria.”

Lri-gTu-riANa--Liguria. The contraction simplified the name for
Earth-tongues, but it sounded odd to Ricardo. He hoped not too many of
the once-familiar place names of Earth would sound odd to his ears.
He wanted to forget about Lri-gTu-riANa for awhile, and rejoice in
the incredible bright wonder of his homecoming. He said: “They use
needle-rays instead of dry flies on--Liguria. It’s not the same.”

“Idiot!” she said again, affectionately. “_I_ don’t give a
_fringo_ how they catch fish on Liguria--that’s for dad. I’m just
glad you’re back.” She hugged his elbow. “I’ve got an aircar waiting.”

_Fringo!_ He wondered where Carla had picked that one up. It was a
Lri-gTu-riANan expression, not entirely decent by accepted terrestrial
standards. But no one who had not been to Lri-gTu-riANa would know.
He wondered if he’d ever get used to calling the planet of his exile
Liguria.

A Vidar newscaster intercepted them before they reached the aircar
beyond the administration building. Ricardo enjoyed the man’s nasal,
staccato chatter after the soft slow accents he had been forced to
listen to from dawn to dusk for five long years. The man said, turning
his vidamike toward Carla so that she, too, would appear on two
hundred million precision-tuned screens, “Mr. Webb, I see you’ve got a
real honeycomb with you. Tell me, how does she look to you after the
Ligurian _Fraislies_?”

“Great--just great!” said Ricardo sincerely.

He wondered, feeling a pang of conscience, just how much people on
Earth knew about the _fraislies_--and how much they could accept
without lifting their eyebrows. Everything was so different on the
first civilized planet man had discovered. And Ricardo had discovered
how thoroughly even the most pleasant exoticism can pall. He was
relieved when the newscaster moved on to another returnee.

Carla and he took off as soon as his luggage had been inspected and
cleared. He gave her the ring which he had had fashioned of a single
chunk of pale blue, luminous Ligurian jade. She kissed him again as
she slipped it on her fourth finger, atop the diamond-and-platinum
engagement ring she had been wearing for five years.

“Oh, _darling_!” she murmured. “This is the loveliest thing! The
other girls will hate me for having it--and for having you.”

This time, when their lips met, he held her face upright between his
palms. But when he moved his hands lower to caress her, she twisted her
head again so her lips crossed his almost vertically. But so ardent was
the embrace that he didn’t really care. It was pleasantly dark and warm
in the aircar, and the cushions were soft, and the automatic pilot was
doing all the work....

Carla’s mother, wearing a plastapron, met them at the door. She was a
pale, plump woman, who twittered like a fluttering, migratory bird. She
had set her face sternly against her daughter’s engagement to Ricardo
but now that he had returned indisputably famous she chose to believe
that the selection of Carla’s fiancé had been hers alone.

Ricardo was relieved when she fled to the kitchen, twittering over a
bare pink shoulder, “I had the bird stuffed with _loocoo-sran_
berries, in honor of your arrival, Ricci. Won’t that be divinely nice?”

He was sure the berries would spoil his meal. If there was one thing
he had developed a hatred for, beyond all others on Lri-gTu-riANa, it
was the all-pervasive sweet-sour tartness of the _loocoo-sran_
ingredient in that planet’s cuisine. It was a standing joke in the
Earth-colony that their hosts used _loocoo-sran_ berries to brush
their teeth, so the flavor would remain with them between meals to
bolster up their egos.

Carla darted into her room and Mr. Baker put an arm across Ricardo’s
shoulders and led him to the servabar at one end of the living room.
He was a large, hearty man with a booming voice. He said, “It’s good
to have you back, son. I think the occasion demands a little liquid
refreshment. I picked up a case of _praglian_ yesterday, in honor
of your arrival.”

_Praglian!_ The thought of its thick, sweetish flavor made him
physically ill. There had been a time, during the early portion of his
stay on Lri-gTu-riANa, when he had enjoyed drinking the stuff. There
had also been a time, before he went to Lri-gTu-riANa, when he would
simply have told Mr. Baker he’d rather have whiskey--good straight
Earth whiskey, 90 proof. But five years of Lri-gTu-riANan politeness
had made such candor impossible. He drank _praglian_, and tried
not to make a face.

Carla came wandering in, wearing snowy white boots, shorts and bolero
jacket. She looked adorable, and she felt adorable as she snuggled
close to him and took a sip from his glass. There was just one flaw.
Now that she had her hat off, he saw that her naturally auburn hair had
been dyed a pale Ligurian green.

“Why did you do it, honey?” he asked her, no longer able to obey the
inner compulsion toward politeness he had acquired on the alien planet.

She thrust a laughing face up at him and said, “Isn’t it
_crspaltish_? All the girls are doing it lately. It’s the absolute
rage.”

Of course, she mispronounced _crspaltish_. But Ricardo didn’t
correct her. The less Ligurian he heard, he told himself bitterly, the
better he was going to like it.

To his surprise, he enjoyed the dinner. Apparently, the
_loocoo-sran_ berries had been adulterated to suit terrestrial
palates, or else he was so used to the flavor that his own taste
had become blunted. At any rate, the radar-cooked turkey was
marvelous--crisp and brown on the outside, and unbelievably tender and
white within. And the rest of the food was untainted with Ligurian
seasonings. He ate until the lastex band of his clout made groves
against the skin of his stomach.

Satiated, he sat on the living room sofa, his fingers entwined with
Carla’s, and wondered why anyone should want to go to Lri-gTu-riANa
when Earth was so much better, so much more suited to the race of men.
In the dim light, he had to look hard to see that Carla’s hair was
Ligurian green. He didn’t strain his eyes.

Mrs. Baker, in the rockofit chair, was wearing the _flausmraka_
bolero he had brought her, and Mr. Baker, in his layback seat, was
puffing on the tube of the Ligurian _clisra_-pipe Ricardo had dug
out of his luggage right after dinner. He hadn’t quite mastered the
technique and made faint slurping sounds at regular intervals.

“I’m so _glad_ you’re back,” Carla whispered, close to his ear.
“It was worth waiting five years for. Or an eternity,” she added,
snuggling even closer to him.

Ricardo gave her hand a squeeze. This was Earth. This was home. This
was Carla, glorious in bolero jacket and snowy boots.

At nine o’clock the vidar announcer appeared and said, “And
now, Rafflex Exterminator, the exterminator that terminates,
presents its long-awaited ninety-minute superspectacular in tri-di
triple-color--_Life on Liguria!_ See the famous authentic
_shlastric_ festival, learn how the seductive _loofahs_
select their mates, thrill to the excitement and danger of a
_kifs_-hunt in the deadly _snree-achian_ jungle, all brought
to you by courtesy of Rafflex Exterminator, the ex--”

“Come on, honey,” said Ricardo, getting to his feet. “Let’s take a
walk. Will you excuse us, Mrs. Baker?”

Mrs. Baker was so deeply engrossed in the vidar that he had to repeat
the question twice.

Outside, the night was warm--Carla lived almost a thousand miles
south of the spaceport--and the moon was as large and mellow as a
lump of unsalted butter. It looked dangerously huge and close to
Ricardo, accustomed as he was to the four swift and tiny satellites of
Lri-gTu-riANa. But the poplars whispered in the soft breeze and the
grass of the lawn was crisply tender beneath his feet. Carla kissed
him--sideways, Liguria-style again--and then said with a sigh, “That’s
what I love about you most, Ricci. You’re so courtly and polite. Asking
mother if we could take a walk! I don’t even mind your having had a
_loofa_ on Liguria.”

“What makes you think I had a _loofa_?” he asked.

“Silly! Doesn’t everyone?” she countered. “When in Rome....”

“As a matter of fact, there wasn’t much choice,” he told her.

He was glad, in a way, that she had accepted the fact that his years on
Lri-gTu-riANa had not been celibate. Yet her easy acquiescence bothered
him a little. It seemed--un-Earthlike. It would have been more in
character if she had given him hell. It would have been more flattering
to his ego. In her casual acceptance of a biological frailty, she
seemed almost like a _fraislie_.

No one who had not lived on the planet could ever really understand its
society. Not that the natives weren’t surprisingly human. In sober fact
they came as close to being human as any race could without actually
belonging to the same species. But their society had developed along
more temperate lines. After all, Lri-gTu-riANa was a milder planet than
Earth.

There were no sex crimes on Lri-gTu-riANa, because there was no sexual
repression. Mating had been reduced to a mere social pleasure--almost
as casually accepted as the custom of shaking hands on Earth. The only
thing outlawed on Lri-gTu-riANa was ugliness in any shape or form. That
hatred of ugliness had been the most difficult factor for the Earth
visitors to adjust to. No matter how useful anything was, no matter how
sorely needed--if it was ugly, it was out--O-U-T, _out_!

Without closing his eyes, Ricardo could see in vivid visual
retrospect his red-headed chief, Captain Luders, turning scarlet with
exasperation. He had not been allowed to employ a water-purifier simply
because the natives hadn’t thought it looked beautiful enough.

He could hear Luders storming, in the seclusion of the inner office,
“Damned pink, candy-box world! I’m beginning to feel like the little
man on a wedding cake. For five credits, I’d....”

What Luders would have done for five credits had been both obscene
and explicit. But the incident had occurred during the early months,
before one of the loveliest _fraislies_ on Lri-gTu-riANa became
the captain’s _loofa_. Luders had lost a lot of rough edges in
the years since, and had become a great stickler for beauty, naked and
unadorned.

Ricardo was brought back to Earth with a thud. Carla was talking about
plans for their wedding, talking joyously and excitedly about showers
and luncheons and bridesmaids costumes. He heard himself say, “Can’t
that wait till tomorrow, honey? I’m a little beat.”

Instantly he wondered why he’d said it. For five years, he had lived
with the constant, gloriously sustaining thought of marrying Carla the
moment he got back to Earth. It had been like the proverbial bottle of
whiskey at the end of the ditch. He had even feared that she might turn
faithless, or be swept off her feet by another man. He had inwardly
denied himself full, and traditionally customary satisfaction with his
own _loofa_, preserving a tiny part of himself for her alone.

They had thought him a cold fish on Lri-gTu-riANa, because of Carla.
Yet here he was, putting off the very thing he’d held himself aloof
for. Aloof-a _loofa_. As he undressed for the night, he wondered
if space-cafard hadn’t got him. Certainly his behavior and feelings had
not been wholly rational. Quite the reverse....

When he awoke the next morning, the sun--Earth’s sun, _his_
sun--was shining low and bright in the east. Birds--Earth-birds--were
singing their morning songs and a faint, wonderful aroma of coffee
came through the window from the kitchen wing of the house. All the
confusion, all the uncertainty, all the self-doubt of the night before
had been washed away. Ricardo stretched lazily, then rose and shuffled
across the carpet to look out the window.

He actually cried out with horror at what he saw.

It seemed like nightmare, but--it wasn’t at all. The neat lawn and
trim poplars were a rich, familiar pink. If it hadn’t been for the
green of the hills west of the town, he’d have thought himself still on
Lri-gTu-riANa. Dazed, he turned away from the shocking spectacle just
as Carla, who had heard him cry out, came into the room.

He said, “What’s happened to the trees, to the lawn?”

She looked pleased, even a little smug. She said, “Isn’t it simply
_crspaltish_, Ricci? We were the very first in town to use
chlorodyll on our grass. You know, the stuff that makes the foliage
pink on Liguria.”

“I know,” Ricardo said grimly.

“The best part of it is that it won’t turn green again,” she told him
proudly. “And it doesn’t spread, so no one can use it who hasn’t paid
for it.”

“Praise Allah for small blessings,” said Ricardo, appalled.

“What’s that?” Carla wanted to know.

“Oh, nothing,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Now almost everybody has chlorodyll grass,” the girl went on. “Out
West, in farming districts, the big owners hire aircars to dust the
prairies. In a few years, the whole world will be pink.”

Ricardo thought despairingly of the green hills of Earth, for which he
had longed for so many years. He thought of the dark tropical forests,
of the mosses of the Arctic tundra, of the great grasslands of Africa,
Asia and South America. All pink, passionate cake-frosting pink! Or
soon to be. He closed his eyes.

Carla kept on talking. “And tonight, they’re having a ball in our honor
at the country club. It’s going to be just like a _shlastric_
festival and some of the girls say they’re going to be real
_loofas_. It’s becoming quite the thing. But mother and I don’t
think it’s exactly proper unless they’re married. I want you to see
my costume, right after breakfast, to be sure it’s a hundred per cent
authentic.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He opened his eyes. He said, “Beat it, honey, will you? I want to take
a shower and get dressed.”

He didn’t shower at once. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed,
being careful to assume an angle that forbade his seeing the pink
foliage outside. He thought of the young people of Earth, ardently
pursuing Ligurian customs, turning the planet into an imitation of
Lri-gTu-riANa. He thought of girls like Carla turning _loofa_. At
least, on Lri-gTu-riANa, it was the real thing.

He packed his bag and got dressed and walked through the French window,
across the pink grass to the street. He hailed a passing vehicle and
was given a lift to the skyport. There, he caught an aircab north to
the spaceport.

The interstellar official looked at him curiously as he reported. He
was a man of native curiosity, which was why he held the job he did.
It was a job where questions were important. He said, “You’re sure you
want to go back for a ten-year hitch. Not that we aren’t glad to have
an old Liguria-hand back. But you haven’t given yourself much time here
on Earth. Your girl run out on you?”

“No,” Ricardo didn’t want to waste time talking. He wouldn’t feel safe
until he was aboard the big gleaming starship awaiting its payload at
the end of the ramp outside. “Just say, I think I’m better suited to
life on Lri-gTu-riANa after five years there.”

“Sure you don’t want a little more time to adjust. It’s a big decision.
And ten years is--”

“Ten years is the longest hitch I can sign for,” said Ricardo. “I
intend to stay on Lri-gTu-riANa for life.”

“Well, we’re not going to stop you,” said the official. “Care for a
spot of _praglian_? One for the road?”

“Why not?” said Ricardo as the official bent to open a drawer. He was
going to drink _praglian_ from now on and like it. He clinked
glasses with his host and downed the Ligurian brew. It was warm and
sweet and not unpleasant on his tongue.

“By the way,” said the official, nodding toward a large carton that
stood beside Ricardo’s bags, “if it’s not hush-hush, would you mind
telling me why you’re spending credits taking seeds to a fertile planet
like Lri-gTu-riANa?”

“Because,” said Ricardo, speaking slowly, “I’m going to turn the whole
damned planet green.”




Transcriber’s note:


 This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, May 1955 (Vol. 3, No.
4.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.

 Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor
inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78138 ***