PILGRIMS' PROJECT
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
Illustrated by EMSH
A man under sentence of marriage
would be lucky to have a girl like
Julia assigned to him—or would he?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Robert F. Young works in a machine shop by day, and atnight goes home and writes anti-machine stories! Pilgrims Projectis different: not so much anti-machine per se, it is still avigorous argument in favor of the individual human spirit and againststandardization. It is also, of course, a thoroughly excitingstory—with one of the most intriguing villains in all sf!
CHAPTER I
"I'd like to apply for a wife," I said.
The Marriage Administration girl inserted an application blank intothe talk-typer on her desk. Her eyes were light blue and her hair wasdark brown and she was wearing a Mayflower dress with a starched whitecollar.
"Name and number?"
"Roger Bartlett. 14479201-B."
"Date of birth?"
"January 17, 2122."
"What is your occupation, Mr. Bartlett?"
"Senior Sentry at the Cadillac Cemetery."
She raised her eyes. Her hair was combed tightly back into a chignonand her face looked round and full like a little girl's.
"Oh. Have there been any exhumings recently, Mr. Bartlett?"
"Not at Cadillac," I said.
"I'm glad. I think it's a shame the way the ghouls carry on, don't you?Imagine anyone having the effrontery to rob a sacred car-grave!"
Her voice sounded sincere enough but I got the impression she wasridiculing me—why, I couldn't imagine. She could not know I was lying.
"Some day they'll rob one grave too many," I said flatly, "and earn theprivilege of digging their own."
She lowered her eyes—rather abruptly, I thought. "Last place ofemployment?"
"Ford Acres."
The longer I looked at her, the more she affected me. The little-girlaspect of her face was misleading. There was nothing little-girlishabout her lithe body, and her stern, high-bosomed dress could notconceal the burgeoning of full breasts or the breathless sweep of waistand shoulders.
Illogically, she reminded me of a landscape I had seen recently at aclandestine art exhibit. I had wandered into the dim and dismal placemore out of boredom than curiosity, and I had hardly gone two stepsbeyond the cellar door when the painting caught my eye. It was called"Twentieth Century Landscape."
In the foreground, a blue river flowed, and beyond the river aflower-flecked meadow spread out to a series of small, forested hills.Beyond the hills a great cumulus formation towered into the sky likean impossibly tall and immaculate mountain. There was only one otherobject in the scene—the lofty, lonely speck of a soaring bird.
An impossible landscape by twenty-second century standards; animpossible analogy by any standards. And yet that's what I thoughtof, standing there in Marriage Administration Headquarters, thestone supporting pillars encircling me like the petrified trunks of adecapitated forest and the unwalled departments buzzing with activity.
"Can you give us some idea of the kind of wife you want, Mr. Bartlett?"
I wanted to say that I didn't want any kind of a wife, that the onlyreason