"But don't you _want_ to?"
Anne tossed her purple hair. "Where is there to go? Who is there to go
to?"
"Yes.... I guess you're right." Milly turned back to her reflection.
_Buzzzzzz_....
Both girls turned their heads to the buttons on the wall. The white one
was glowing.
"It's Miss Bestris."
"We'd better go," Milly said.
Together they walked down the heavily carpeted stairs to the sitting
room.
The Madame was waiting. She was a large woman, rolling in creases of
fat, and her pink hair was rough and clipped short. She had a pair of
dimples in her cheeks and a single gold band around her right wrist. She
was leaning against the piano.
"Hurry now, girls, hurry right along," she said.
More girls were entering the room; they spread out, sitting on the
chairs, curling at the Madame's feet. Their eyes--amethyst, gray or
golden--were on her face. Many had pink hair, others had tresses of
purple or salmon.
"Now, girls, I suppose you know there's an Earth ship in port?"
The girls nodded.
"So I expect we'll have visitors tonight. I want you to all look your
very best." She smiled at them. "Anne, why don't you wear that low-cut,
orange plastic with the spangles, and June, you the prim white one? You
look like an angel in it." June smiled. "And Mary...?"
"Yes, Miss Bestris?"
"Mary. Did you buy that neo-nylon I told you about?"
"No, Miss Bestris."
"Mary, Mary, Mary. I just don't understand you at all."
"I'm saving my money, Miss Bestris," Mary said intently.
"Yes, dear, I know that. We're _all_ saving our money. But we simply
must look presentable. We have a reputation to hold up."
"Yes, Miss Bestris."
"Then, Mary, dear, do--do, _please_, buy yourself something decent."
"Yes, Miss Bestris. I will.... Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, if I ..."
[Illustration]
"Child? If you what?"
"Nothing, Miss Bestris."
"Well. See that you get it tomorrow. If you don't, I'm afraid I'll have
to take some of your money and get it for you."
Mary looked down at the floor. The flaming glow of the hydrojet torches
cast golden lights in her softly purple hair.
"By the way, Mary. Is that your cake in the oven?"
"Yes, Miss Bestris."
The other girls snickered.
"Let her alone," said the Madame. "If she wants to bake a cake, why
shouldn't she?"
No one answered.
Miss Bestris went on around the room, discussing the girls' clothing,
brushing this girl's hair, pinching that girl's cheek, chucking this one
under the chin, smiling, frowning. Then finally she stepped back and
nodded.
"You all look quite good, I think. I can be proud of you. And now, I
want you all to go to your rooms and make them extra attractive, and
then try to get a little rest, so you'll all be especially beautiful
when the boys come. Run along now."
The girls filed out, and night continued to settle. After a while, her
cigarette glowing in the gloom, the Madame waddled to her office. There
three people were waiting for her.
* * * * *
The office was plain, businesslike, masculine; no lace, no ribbons, no
perfume, only the crisp smell of new paper, the tangy odor of ink, the
sweet smell of eraser fluid. When she came in the door the three people
stood up.
She waved her cigarette hand with a once delicate gesture and flame
light glinted dully on the gold band. "Please don't get up for me," she
said, but her tone was condescending and the three visitors sat down
respectfully.
Miss Bestris crossed to her desk; she perched on a corner of it, leaned
back, blew smoke.
"You wanted to see me about your girls?"
Two of the people, man and wife, looked at each other. "Yes," they said.
And the other man said, "Yes."
"Did you bring any pictures?"
They handed her pictures, and she held them up to the overhead torch.
She studied them critically, pursing and unpursing her lips in secret
calculation.
"This one," she said finally, holding out one of the pictures.
The man and wife rustled their clothing; they smiled faintly proud at
each other.
The other man got up slowly, retrieved his picture, left the room
without saying a word.
"We can't do for little Lavada," the woman whined. "She was a late
child, and we're getting old, and we thought she would be better here.
It's hard to do for a growing girl when you get old. And my husband
can't keep steady work, because of his health and ..."
"I'm sure she will be happy here," the Madame said, smiling.
"Yes," the man agreed. "It's for the best. But--you know--well, we hate
to do it."
"How old is she?"
"... Fourteen."