Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people to colonize who didn't _want_ to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The second point was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all--provided you held your nose, silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there was such a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked the correspondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about to begin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redid her face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paint away the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what you would call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compact mirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn't even what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose a fraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly--but not pretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in the corner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically a race apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. "Going out tonight, Phyl?" She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth. The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought she would sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. "I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinse out." The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. "Sure, Phyl, I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us--waiting for the phone to ring." Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully noting the girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hard sort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure. Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside a theatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she stripped and took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself in front of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether you should keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up and let yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, and went through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up on the sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety--scientifically written with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly described love affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room, getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered to the floor.