His hand quivered a little as he pressed his thumb against the opener-plate. The scanner recorded his print and obediently opened the mailbox. He took out the letter.
It was a blue envelope, longer than usual, with an official penalty-for-private-use imprint where the stamp was supposed to be. Dawes' eyes travelled over the return address almost casually. Colonization Bureau, District Board Number One, New York.
His stomach felt queasy as he ripped the envelope hastily open.
It was addressed to him, all right. The letter, typed neatly in dark red on the standard blue paper, came quickly to the point.
You have been selected to be a member of the colonizing expedition departing on 17 October from Bangor, Maine, aboard the starship GEGENSCHEIN. You must report at once to your nearest Colonization Bureau registry center. You are now subject to the provisions of the Interstellar Colonization Act of 2099, and any violation of these provisions will meet with severe punishment.
By order of L. L. Mulholland, District Chairman.
Mike Dawes read the contents of the slip of blue paper four times, one time after another, and with each reading the numbness grew in him. He was finding it hard to believe that he had really been called. After all, the chance was one in thousands, he thought. Why, in all his life he had only known two or three people to be called. There had been Mr. Cutley, who ran the grocery store, and Teddy Nathan, who lived on the next block.
And Judy Wellington also, Dawes thought.
And now me.
'Dammit, it isn't fair!' he muttered.
'What isn't?' a casual voice asked behind him.
Dawes turned. He saw Lon Rybeck there - a senior who lived on the first floor. Rybeck still wore a dressing gown; he had no early classes, but came out to look at the mail anyway.
Mutely Dawes held up the blue slip. Rybeck's eyes narrowed and his tongue flicked briefly across his lips. 'They picked you?' he said hoarsely.
Dawes nodded. 'It just came. I have to report to the nearest registry center right away.'
'That's a lousy break, Dawes!'
'Damn right it is! Why'd they have to grab me? I'm only twenty! I haven't even finished college! I—'
He quit, realizing that he sounded foolish. Rybeck was trying to look sympathetic, but behind the expression of concern was a deeper amusement - and relief. Probability dictated that the invisible hand would not reach into this house a second time; Dawes' selection meant Rybeck could breathe more freely.
'It's rough,' Rybeck said gently. 'The morning mail comes and all your plans explode like bubbles. Where are they sending you, do you know?'
Dawes shook his head. 'It just says I'll be leaving next Wednesday from the Bangor starfield. Doesn't give the destination.'
Suddenly he did not want to talk to Rybeck anymore.
He had envied the older man long enough. Rybeck had a casual attitude toward grades, toward professors, toward other people, that the more conscientious Dawes had never fully understood. And now there was Rybeck, smiling ironically, standing there in his dressing gown with his life still intact. Dawes felt intolerable jealousy.
He rushed past Rybeck, up the stairs and into his room.
The clock said 0830, but it didn't matter now. Dawes tossed his textbooks carelessly into the bookshelf. Nothing mattered any more. There would be no more classes for him, no more hours of study, no more ambitions. He didn't have to worry about applying to medical school.
Instead of the years of study, interning and residency, struggling to set up a practice, he would live out the rest of his days on some alien world of another star.
Of all the lousy luck, Dawes thought.
He tried to rationalize it. He tried to tell himself that it was better his number had come up now, when he was still young. Except for his parents, no one would miss him very greatly. It might have been much worse if he had hung on another ten years. He visualized himself at the age of thirty, a little on the plump side, a well-fed general practitioner with a nice home in Cleveland Heights or perhaps here in Columbus. He would have a wife, two small children, a modest but growing practice.
And the inexorable hand would descend and pluck him away from all that. Better to go now, he agreed bleakly.
But still better not to go at all!
He unfolded the note and read it yet again. This time he noticed the slogan across the bottom of the sheet:
Do Your Share For Mankind's Destiny.
Twenty years ago, they had decided that mankind's destiny was in the stars. Mike Dawes had been a gurgling baby when the decision was made that, twenty years hence, would rip him from the fabric of existence on Earth. Get out to the stars, that was the cry that swept newly-united Earth. Settle other worlds. Spread Earthmen through the universe. It had been a noble aim, Dawes thought. Except that nobody seemed very anxious to go. Let the other guy colonize the stars. Me, I'll stay here and read about it.
So there was a conscription. And now, Dawes thought, I've been caught.
... report at once to your nearest Colonization Bureau registry center ...
When they said 'at once,' they meant it, Dawes knew.
They meant get there within the hour. And woe betide if they discovered he had done anything to himself to make himself ineligible. There had been cases of women slashing at their bodies with knitting needles to disqualify themselves; naturally, only fertile colonists were wanted. But the penalty for intentional self-hurt was a lifetime at hard labor. It wasn't worth it.
Twice he reached for the phone, to call his parents in Cincinnati and let them know. Twice he drew back. They would have to be told sooner or later, he knew. But he steered away from bringing the bad news himself. Then he pictured how it would be if he remained silent and let the bureau send them its official notice. He picked up the phone again.
His father answered. Mike felt a pang of regret as he heard the voice of his father, the newsstand proprietor who had scraped for years so his favorite boy could study to be a doctor.
'Yes? Who is this?'
'Dad, this is Mike.'
'Is everything all right?' said the immediately suspicious voice. 'You got our letter? You didn't run out of money so soon, did you?'
'No, Dad. I—they've—'
'Speak up, Mike. We must have a bad connection. I can hardly hear you.'
'I've been selected, Dad!'
There was a pause, a sharp indrawing of breath. Dawes heard indistinct muttering; no doubt his father had his hand over the mouthpiece and was telling his mother about it. Dawes was grateful, for the first time, that he had never been able to afford a visual attachment for the phone. Right now he did not want to see their faces.
'When did you get the notice, boy?'
'J-just now. I have to report to the registry center right away. I leave next Wednesday.'
'Next Wednesday,' his father repeated musingly.
Dawes heard his mother sobbing in the background.
She cried out suddenly, 'We won't let them take him!
We won't!'
'There's no helping it, Ethel,' said his father quietly.
"Boy, can you hear me?'
'Yes, Dad.'
'Report where you're supposed to. Don't do anything wrong, do you hear?'
'I won't, Dad.'
'Will we see you again?'
'I -I suppose so. At least they ought to let us say good-bye.'
'And there isn't any way you can get out of this? I mean, once they call you, you can't appeal?'
'No, Dad. Nobody can appeal.'
'Oh. I see.'
There was another long pause. Dawes waited, not knowing what to say. He felt strangely guilty, as if he were at fault somehow for having brought this sorrow upon his parents.
His father said finally, 'So long, boy. Take care of yourself. And let us know, soon as you know anything about where you're going.'