The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off the
edge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylon
thread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore it
look beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. She
knew she would never be able to buy it.
But she didn't intend to buy it.
She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.
There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviously
embarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It was
a perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that she
had purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.
Time enough, at any rate.
The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off any
hangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled it
up and dropped it in her shopping bag.
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.