ill Barrent wakes up in a starship holding cell with dangerous criminals on their way to permanent exile on the prison planet Omega. His memories have been removed, so he remembers nothing of his previous life; he only knows that he was charged and convicted of murder.
Once on Omega, he discovers a brutal and incomprehensible society where the average life expectancy for newcomers is less than three years. There is a strict class structure, with advancement possible only for those willing to engage in the most extreme anti-social behavior. Drug addiction is mandatory under the law. So is worship of a satanic being known only as the Dark One. The rules are so insane and so arbitrary that it's almost impossible to live there for any length of time without running afoul of laws that carry the death penalty—or worse.
The confused and disoriented Barrent advances quickly, thanks in part to his first-day victory against Omega residents hunting him for sport. Inheriting a store that sells antidotes against the many poisons popular on Omega, he tries to keep out of trouble long enough to learn the rules. But the first rule is to not keep out of trouble—and Barrent soon finds himself in an arena, enduring trial by combat thanks to a serious charge of non-drug addiction. Maybe if he survives that battle, and the even greater lunacies that follow, he can make his way back to Earth and find out why he's so certain that he committed no crime. And maybe he can confront the unknown accuser whose false testimony condemned him to this bizarre place. But that accuser is the last person he'd ever suspect. ...
A mad romp with a moral core
Robert Sheckley's body of work has always gravitated toward the farcical. He's not big on square-jawed, ultra-competent heroes. He prefers everyday shlumps beset by circumstances beyond their control, suburbanites, whether on Earth or in space, who find themselves cast in bizarre situations where even the argument with the alien intent on eating them can take on the perversely polite tone of an angry discussion with a fast-food waiter who insists they really did order that disgusting stuff on their plate. Even on those rare occasions when he does cast square-jawed, ultra-competent heroes (as the protagonist of The Status Civilization turns out to be), they function as straight men to the insane worlds they're forced to inhabit. Some of his stories read like Monty Python before Monty Python, or Hitchhiker's Guide before Hitchhiker's Guide. But the best have a wild satiric edge that brings the insanity of our own lives into sharp relief.
The Status Civilization has murder, drug addiction, Satan worship, oppressive societies and genetic mutation. It sounds grim—and Barrent's successful battles against a succession of menaces to his well-being make it read at points like the synopsis of an Arnold Schwarzenegger action film. But it's really a wild comedy, which wrests most of its hilarity from the chains of illogic that keep tying Barrent in knots. When a legal-aid society, protecting Barrent's rights, informs him that the three thugs trying to kill him for fun really are entitled to do so under the law, and advises him to take comfort in the knowledge that his rights in this matter have been protected, Barrent's frustration level is palpable ... as is the comedy. We understand that Barrent really does just want to make the best of the bum hand he's been dealt, and can't understand why the rules keep changing.
The moral core of the book? It's that when Barrent makes his way back to an Earth he remembers not at all, it turns out to be just as arbitrary and just as filled with hidden pitfalls. And the identity of the person who framed him for murder turns out to be the final consequence of any world where order and conformity are valued above all else.
