Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

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.