Part 2

She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when she felt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and she knew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it out to the end, to grasp any straw.

"Let go of me!" she ordered in a frostily offended voice.

"Sorry, miss," the man said politely, "but I think we have a short trip to take."

She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up. She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, a probing into her background for the psychological reasons that prompted her to steal, and then she'd be out again.

They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.

She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppers had looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facing a man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddies who served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in the presence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floated in from the corridor.

"Why did you steal it?" the judge asked. He held up the dress, which, she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under the department store lights.

"I don't have anything to say," she said. "I want to see a lawyer."

She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, another plain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.

And she probably was. You had to do _something_ nowadays. You couldn't just sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to the endless boring lectures on art and culture.

"Name?" he asked in a tired voice.

She knew the statistics he wanted. "Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Prints on file."

The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who left and presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran his fingers down one of the pages.

The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought--six months and a fine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record for shoplifting.

A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the government suddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She could hear a little of what he said:

"... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ... probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration."

"In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you a choice," the judge finally said. "You can either go to the penitentiary for ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colony planets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus."

She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested in neither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. She could recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothing she could do about it.

"I wouldn't call that a choice," she said sourly. "I'll ship out."

V

Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences, like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-in soft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and the electrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion of security in an ever-changing world.

She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady, thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of the downtown stores.

Well, maybe some day she would.

But not today. And not tonight.

The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for a minute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. The conversation wasn't long.

She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom to get a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that same night.

It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away, she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares from other pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heels on the sidewalk.

The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office building than anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed the buzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth on the inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young man appeared in the doorway.

"Miss Carstens?"

She smiled pertly.

"We've been expecting you."

She wondered a little at the "we," but dutifully smiled and followed him in.

The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment. When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry at the edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was a battery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most of the girls sitting in them.

She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.

"I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never...."

The young man coughed politely. "I'm afraid there's been no mistake. Full name, please."

"Suzanne Carstens," she said grimly, and gave the other statistics he wanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.

"Suzanne Carstens," the young man noted, and slowly shook his head. "A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn't matter, though. Take a seat over there."

She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.

"I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We've interceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice. We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we will pay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. The colonists need wives; they offer you--security."

He stressed the word slightly.

"Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can stay behind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of ten thousand dollars."

Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she had worked so hard for, her symbol of security.

"Well, what do you say?" There was a dead silence. The young man from the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. "How about you, Miss Carstens?"

She smiled sickly and nodded her head. "I _love_ to travel!" she said.

It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.

VI

The transfer shed was a vast and somber terminal, cold and impersonal. There was a cleared space at the center of the floor where the officials had desks and tables and rows of filing cabinets and busily clicking machinery. The women sat huddled around the edges of the shed, waiting to be called to the center and assigned to any of the various colony planets.

Phyllis clutched her small suitcase, containing the few personal items she had been allowed to take on the trip, and silently swore that once she set foot on another planet, she'd never leave it, no matter what.

"Draft 49 for the Huffer Solar System report to the routing desk! Draft 49 for the Huffer Solar System report to the routing desk!"

"That's us," Suzanne said drily. She and Phyllis and Ruby joined the others out on the floor.

"You understand," the routing official was saying, "that you're allowed your choice of planets in the Huffer Solar System. We'll read off occupational and other pertinent information and then you make your choice.

"Sunside: First planet from the system sun. Warm, humid climate. Fishing, flower-growing for export, mining, and natural handicrafts. Population ratio 7 to 1, males all somatypes and admixtures.

"Midplanet: Second planet out. Temperate climate. Farming, fur-trapping, slight manufacturing. Ratio 7 to 1, all somatypes and admixtures."

"Newman's body, last planet out from the system sun...."

He finished the list and gave them five minutes to decide. The names of the three planets appeared on the floor in glowing letters. When they had made up their minds, they were to go and stand on the name.

They held a short conference.

"It looks like it's a tossup between fish and furs," Ruby said. "I think I'll take Midplanet. I like furs better than fish."

They argued a moment longer, then picked up their belongings and went and stood on the luminous letters.

VII

No doubt of it, the carpet made a fairly suitable green, Escher thought. He placed the ball firmly on the nap, stepped back a pace, and tapped it smartly with the golf club. It rolled in a beautifully straight path into the upturned water glass.

"Very nice shot, Claude."

Escher looked up and leaned the club against the side of the desk.

"I thought so, too," he agreed. "What brings you here, Mac?"

MacDonald sat down and poured himself a glass of water from the beaker on Escher's desk.

"Just wanted to pass on the compliments of the Board for the recent large upswing in woman emigrants to the colony planets."

Escher casually waved it aside.

"It wasn't much. We just had to rid ourselves of some old-fashioned notions, that's all. I was afraid, though, that the Board might disapprove of our methods."

MacDonald thought for a moment.

"No, I guess they didn't. I can't recall any members of the Board complaining about it, at least. Apparently they felt that something drastic was needed. Or, more probably, they've kept themselves carefully ignorant of just how we did it. Oh, they know we violated privacy in a lot of cases, but they're willing to overlook it."

"Very white of them, I'm sure," Escher grunted. He took up the club and set the ball back on its carpet tee. "How about a game tomorrow afternoon?"

MacDonald shook his head. "It didn't bother the Board much, Claude, but I followed your advertising and I was down to the port to see a contingent of our new colonists take off. It bothers _me_, Claude. The ads you sent to the different planets, the whispering campaign we arranged for, the subtle propaganda we sent out--and then the women. Don't you think there will be some sort of howl? We've definitely led them to believe one thing and here we're sending them--well, the new colonists leave a lot to be desired."

Escher looked at him coldly. "Look, Mac, let's be cynical about this. That's why it was referred to us in the first place. Of course the girls we sent aren't the most beautiful or the most glamorous. Those girls are already married and you couldn't get them to leave, no matter what you did. The girls we sent are the ones who weren't wanted here on Earth. We even killed two birds with one stone and solved the crime problem."

He held up his hand when MacDonald started to object.

"Don't say it, Mac. Stop and think for a moment. What danger can a shoplifter do on a colony planet? There's nothing to steal. And without large cities, most other types of crime will have equally tough sledding. Besides, we eliminated those who had natural criminal tendencies. Most of the others had drifted into it as an outlet for their sense of insecurity, the feeling of not being wanted."

MacDonald looked worried.

"All right, what happens when the colonists find out, Claude? What happens when they find out we shipped them the castoffs, the leftovers?"

"The point is, Mac, they'll never find out. They're Second System colonists. You know how the Colonization Board works. Planet A colonizes planet B. Planet B colonizes planet C. Given a suitable number of generations, the people on planet C will never have seen people from planet A. Earth is planet A. The colony planets to which the women were sent are all planet Cs.

"You see, the catch is that the colonists will have no basis on which to make comparisons. They've never seen women from Earth!"

"I still don't like it. They _have_ seen women from other planets. After taking a look at the last shipload of females that left Earth, I'm still worried."

Escher laughed. "That's because you _haven't_ seen some of the colony women, Mac. Tell me, what is the most cultured and socially up-to-date planet? Earth, of course. Now on what planet has husband-hunting and pleasing been developed into an all-out struggle with fine scientific techniques? Earth, again. The colonists don't have a chance.

"When it comes to catching and pleasing the male, the girls from Earth have really had an education. They can take care of themselves. Don't worry about that. Who's to tell the colonists the girls aren't the cream of the crop, anyway? Not the girls themselves, certainly. And not us. I tell you they'll never find out, Mac."

"You're positive that the colonists will be pleased with the women?"

Escher hesitated. "Well, reasonably." He sounded a little wistful. He practiced his swing a few more times, barely missing the lamp on his desk.

"I thought the advertising was rather clever, too. They'll feel a great obligation to us for sending them 'Earth's Fairest Daughters.' Be good for strengthening the ties to the mother planet."

MacDonald looked somewhat happier.

"What about the women themselves, though? We sold them a bill of goods, too, you know. They're expecting modern cities and handsome, rugged heroes for husbands. I know damn well that a lot of the colonies aren't much more than sinkholes and I suspect the sanitary, rugged, thoughtful male is strictly off the artist's drawing board. What happens when the women find that out?"

Escher took the ball out of the glass and went back a few paces for another try.

"Don't forget, Mac, the girls are the ones who weren't wanted here, the ones who were heading up for lives as old maids. They're going to planets where they're strictly a scarce item, where they'll be appreciated. The colonists will think they're getting something special and they'll treat the girls that way. They'll take good care of them. There might be a few difficulties at first, but it'll come out all right."

"In other words, the whole thing hinges on how the colonists receive the girls. Isn't that it?"

The ball thunked solidly into the glass again and rolled out.

"That's right. We've hedged our bets the best we can. Now we'll have to wait and see. But I don't think we have anything to worry about."

"Uh-huh," MacDonald grumbled. "It works out nice in theory, but I wonder how it'll be in practice."

VIII

Phyllis let the deceleration press her into the cot and tried to relax. In ten minutes they would be disembarking in Landing City. Landing City, with its wide, paved streets and modern buildings, the neatly laid-out farms and the modern rocket port.

There was a clanging of bells, a sudden feeling of nausea, and she knew they had landed. In the excited buzz of conversation from the others, she got her small suitcase and filed toward the hatch.

They took her name and gave her the emigration bonus, and then she was on the ramp going down, smelling the cool fresh air and feeling a damp breeze against her face.

She looked down....

The modern rocket port was a scorched expanse of dirty ground, with a rusting shed at one end that she guessed was the office. Landing City was a collection of rundown shacks and corrugated huts with mud streets and wooden sidewalks running between them.

She should have guessed, she thought bitterly. She had been sold a bill of goods. And there was no going back now; she was stuck with it.

Stuck with it.

She took another look. At least it would be healthy, and there was something besides the concrete and granite of a city to look at. It wouldn't be day in and day out of sitting eight hours behind a typewriter, and then back to her lonesome two rooms for an evening of bridge or a night with a boring book.

And there was nothing wrong with the town that couldn't be remedied and improved with a little work. She and the others would see to that. Progress was going to hit Landing City whether the colonists like it or not.

The colonists....

She stared at the whiskery, ragged lot of men of all shapes and sizes that were waiting to welcome them.

They had probably, she thought queerly, never heard a lecture on art in their lives. And they wouldn't have any interest in historical novels and it was an even-money bet that bridge and canasta games would bore them.

They were _uncultured_, she thought happily, _thoroughly_ uncultured! Their main interest was probably in having a home and raising a family and working....

And with a shave and clean clothes, they might even be handsome! A dimly remembered poster of a blond-haired giant flashed into her mind, but she dismissed it. The men below had a hard, healthy look about them, a certain virility, an individuality that the pale men back on Earth, now that she thought of it, seemed to lack.

She was very definitely going to like it here.

Then she had a sudden, nagging thought.

How would the colonists take to her and the other bedraggled females?

IX

The twinkling fire came nearer and they could make out the outlines of the slim-ship. It rapidly grew in size and finally settled to a heavy, groaning rest on the pitted and blackened landing field.

Karl was holding his breath, staring at the outline of the hatch on the ship's rusty side. It opened and the flight of descent stairs slid out. The captain and crew came out first.

Then the women filed down the ladder, smiling timidly and looking cold and frightened.

Karl could hear Hill gulping noisily beside him and knew that his own mouth was gaping. But he couldn't help it.

The girls were gorgeous.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Girls From Earth, by Frank M. Robinson