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 at night goes home and writes anti-machine stories!_ Pilgrims Project _is different: not so much anti-machine per se, it is still a vigorous argument in favor of the individual human spirit and against standardization. It is also, of course, a thoroughly exciting story--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 into the talk-typer on her desk. Her eyes were light blue and her hair was dark brown and she was wearing a Mayflower dress with a starched white collar. "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 chignon and 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 was ridiculing 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 the privilege of digging their own." She lowered her eyes--rather abruptly, I thought. "Last place of employment?" "Ford Acres." The longer I looked at her, the more she affected me. The little-girl aspect of her face was misleading. There was nothing little-girlish about her lithe body, and her stern, high-bosomed dress could not conceal the burgeoning of full breasts or the breathless sweep of waist and shoulders. Illogically, she reminded me of a landscape I had seen recently at a clandestine art exhibit. I had wandered into the dim and dismal place more out of boredom than curiosity, and I had hardly gone two steps beyond the cellar door when the painting caught my eye. It was called "Twentieth Century Landscape."