Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

A loudspeaker blared.

“All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers! All colonists....”

There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidly moving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out little blue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tell them some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had a great imagination, nothing else.

Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside the landing field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcome signs for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with government pamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl went over and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set out and were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women in the community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wondering how the girls from Earth would compare with them.

He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be like who had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when it landed, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, of course, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of getting acquainted. He’d have to get back to his trapping lines and he imagined that Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to their farms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way, till it was too late.

“Sandwich, mister? Pop?”

Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, and wandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still ten minutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himself straining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flicker of exhaust flame.

The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.

“... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....”

“... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment’s rest afterward....”

“... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....”

“... I’d give a lot to know the girl who’s got number twenty-five....”

“Let’s meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers,” Hill said. “Maybe we could trade.”

Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was just as good as depending on first impressions.

There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze riveted overhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle of fire.

He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushed aside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn’t hurt to try to look his best.

The twinkling fire came nearer.

II

“A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.”

Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.

“Please send him right in.”

That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would come in whether Escher wanted him to or not.

The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual and Escher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problem was going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.

MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes, just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychology by heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective in browbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.

He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn’t easy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he was the head of the department.

Escher gave in first. “Okay, Mac, what’s the trouble? What do we have tossed in our laps now?”

“You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we first started to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male population took to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers, the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, to get away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresome than the female; the men left—but the women didn’t. At least, not in nearly the same large numbers.

“Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth is now something like five to three. If you don’t know what that means, ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn’t just a pleasant pastime on Earth. It’s an earnest cutthroat business and I’m not just using a literary phrase.”

He threw a paper on Escher’s desk. “You’ll find most of the statistics about it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar to women. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It’s quite a list. You’ll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, a lot of which wouldn’t have bothered the courts before. In fact, they wouldn’t even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?”

Escher shook his head blankly.

“Most of the girls in the past who didn’t catch a husband,” MacDonald continued, “grew up to be the type of old maid who’s dedicated to improving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We’ve got more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have more silly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in the pokey for things like violating a woman’s privacy—whatever that means—and she’s the one who decides whether what you say or do is a violation or not.”

Escher looked bored. “Not to mention the new prohibition which forbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hair tonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you’ll pardon the expression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know the solution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.”

MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

“But it won’t be easy, and that’s why it’s been given to us. It’s your baby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing’s impossible, you know.”

“Perpetual motion machines are,” Escher said quietly. “And pulling yourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless, women just don’t want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why should they give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modern conveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexplored planet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and play footsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin them alive as not?”

“What do you advise I do, then?” MacDonald demanded. “Go back to the Board and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can’t think of anything?”

Escher looked hurt. “Did I say that? I just said it wouldn’t be easy.”

“The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will pay off. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but not necessarily the spirit.”

“When do they have to have a solution?”

“As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time the situation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what will happen then won’t be good.”

“All right, by then we’ll have the answer.”

MacDonald stopped at the door. “There’s another reason why they want it worked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board for emigration to the colony planets is falling off.”

“How come?”

MacDonald smiled. “On the basis of statistics alone, would you want to emigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?”

When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idly tapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the Colonization Board worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealistic level where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 per cent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on that level, they went to Escher and MacDonald’s department. The coal mine level. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if it didn’t work, you took the lumps, too.