Her apartment was a nest for electronic wizardry of all kinds.
Cherry ate without interest. Breakfast was just something that had to be eaten, not any source of pleasure.
She was tense about the audition at 1300. An usherette had to prance up and down the aisles in nothing more than a bit of hip-length, translucent fluff. She was sure she had the figure for the job, but her confidence was low.
In the past year she had been gaining weight, slowly, inexorably, unstoppably.
It wasn't like this when Dan was here, she thought.
Dan had been the world to her: manager, trainer, coach, father-confessor, agent. Dan had found her when she was a dime-a-dance girl in Philadelphia, and before Dan had finished with her she was the toast of Las Vegas, Paris, Bucharest. Dan had slimmed her down, taught her poise, forced her to fight temptations, found her the best jobs and compelled her to turn down everything but the very best.
But Dan was gone. They had selected him, two years ago. And nothing had been the same since.
Without him she could not fend for herself. Within a year Cherry Thomas was no longer a name to put in lights; she was back singing in the dives, the flashy but tawdry joints on the wrong side of town. The big wheel had spun and the pointer had pointed at Dan, and they had taken him away and sent him out to some brand new world to build a civilization. She had wept and raged for two days, and then she drank for three more, but nothing brought him back.
Selection. The word was the foulest in Cherry's vocabulary. When someone said it in her hearing, her eyes slitted, her jaws tightened, her stomach contracted in anger and pain. Selection was a dirty word. And the man who had invented selection, whoever he was, would rot in Hell if Cherry Thomas' muttered curses could put him there.
And the worst of it was, Cherry thought, rubbing the old wound with salt for the millionth time, that she could have gone with him, if she had wanted to. 'You can always become a volunteer,' Dan had told her as she wept hysterically that morning. You can come with me wherever I'm going, if it means that much to you.' And he had knotted his hands in his thick dark hair and waited for her answer, and she had refused to say anything.
Well, what the hell would you do? she demanded fiercely of nobody in particular. She had been twenty-three, rolling in money, the toast of the entertainment world. He was ten years older than she. Sure, she had thought she loved him, but how can anyone be sure of that? It seemed like so much to ask, for her to give up her limousine and her apartment and her pet ocelot and her cozy, luxurious, pampered life to follow him out to the stars.
So she had finally said no, she would stay here, and Dan had shrugged calmly, telling her that it was better that way, that she was probably not fitted for the rugged frontier life anyway. And he had gone, leaving her behind. And then the anguish began for her in earnest.
She had sold the fancy cars and given away the ocelot.
She still had the apartment but very little else. She had lost her cozy, luxurious life, and she had lost Dan. There had been the quick, crazy, bad marriage right after Dan was taken, a marriage that lasted only a couple of months, and after that the long, slow, gentle slide downward. The slide hadn't ended yet. Soon she'd be performing for ten bucks a night. And she would drift wearily on into her thirties and forties and maybe her fifties, growing heavier and lonelier, while Dan built log cabins in the stars. Perhaps he was dead now. What did it matter? If she had chosen to go with him, everything would have been much different.
But I was selfish. I stayed behind. And what did I get for it?
Cherry shook her head sadly, put her coffee cup into the autowash, and took a cheeriup pill from the medicine cabinet. The pill took effect practically at once: a fine, false buoyant feeling of optimism and good cheer replaced the introspective mood of gloom. She punched the dial three more times and three more little yellow pills popped out. One every four hours would see her through the day without a moment of depression; maybe the good mood was phony, but it was better than brooding about Dan all day.
She hung up her robe and eyed herself critically in the elaborate three hundred degree full-length mirror, something she never dared to do before taking her cheeriup. Fortified, she could observe her body without fear. She nodded approvingly. A visit to the steam bath, she thought, was in order, to shave a bit of poundage off the rear end. Otherwise, she was satisfied. Her belly was still flat, her bosom high and firm. She grinned at herself. That usherette's job wouldn't present any problems at all.
She dialed the wardrobe control for her clothes, and slipped rapidly into them - a one-piece blue dress with scanties underneath. No sense dressing elaborately for this kind of audition, she thought. The wardrobe indicator had already sampled the outdoor weather and reported that it was coolish; it proffered a wrap for her, and she took it.
One last check in the mirror: makeup was okay, hair well groomed, face scrubbed. Thanks to the cheeriup, she looked happy, enthusiastic, eager. The auditioners would never be able to see the core of misery deep beneath the surface.
'Good morning, Miss Thomas,' said the elevator's voice as she stepped in. A photoscanner in the elevator's roof was rigged to recognize all of the building's tenants and give them a personal greeting.
'Good morning,' she said. 'Nice day.'
There was no reply. The elevator's brain-center was programmed only for one sentence. But she believed in returning the greeting, anyway. It was the least she could do.
The elevator deposited her in the glittering chrome-and-green-glass lobby. She started to break the photo-beam that controlled the front door; then, as an afterthought, she decided to see if there had been any mail for her.
That was when she found the selection notice from the Colonization Bureau.
Mirror-bright fingernails slashed the blue envelope open. She read the message carefully, slowly; reading had never been one of her strong points. When she had gone through the brief notice the first time, she doubled back and read it again.
Yes; no doubt of it. It was a selection notice.
'Well, I'll be a - So they got me, too!'
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 200g, and any violation of these provisions will meet with severe punishment.
By order of D. L. Mulholland, District Chairman.
Her first reaction was an outraged one: Who the hell are they that they can grab hold of Cherry Thomas and say that she has to go out and go to the stars? They can't push me around like that!
But after the first wild flare of defiance came a quieter, more sobering thought: Maybe it won't be so bad. I could use a change of air. I'm not going anyplace here on Earth. In ten years I'll be a two-bit floozie. So why not go where they want me to go?
And then came the last thought, the clincher: Maybe you can pick the place where you're going 1 Maybe I can go to the planet where Dan is!
She hurried upstairs. According to the notice, she had to report to the nearest registry center at once. The phone directory told her that there was a center ten blocks away. To blazes with that audition! For the first time in two years she felt genuine enthusiasm.
She took a cab to the registry center - no need to worry about economizing now. She practically ran up the stairs and into the big office. A receptionist blinked at her and Cherry shoved the blue slip forward.