A dozen more pods came and went before she snagged an empty one, darted into it, felt the shoulder and waist restraints grip her firmly, felt the neck brace fit itself from shoulder to head as she said, “Wardrobe, Twentieth-Century America, the Arts” and remembered too late she was still holding the cup.
She gasped as the pod fell straight down, then shifted left, right, made a quick spiral, a long horizontal run at top speed, then a quick stop that threw the last of her breakfast all over her. Ellin gasped. She had never been able to breathe in transit. Now she felt like a dropped egg!
When the pod side popped open, she almost fell out, steadying herself on the wall, hearing the pod chant, “Make it the best day ever,” as it zipped away.
Why did Par want her? It was true that History House paid big bonuses to the women characters who were willing to let tourists observe the actual births. Ellin only knew one person who’d done natural pregnancy and public birth, her friend from infant fosterage, Tutlia Omae, formerly known as Tutsy, who had actually had six babies, earning enough in seven years not only to pay off her contract but also to buy tickets off-world for herself and the two youngest children! Of course, not everyone would have been allowed to have six children, but Tutsy had AA genetics on both sides and the quota for American Indigenes was always scraping the bottom. Also, Tutsy had worked in one of History House’s most profitable exhibits, Old Earth, Cowboys and Indians! and she got hardship bonuses all the time. Ellin had often wondered what there was about sitting around a fire and eating half raw meat that made it more of a hardship than dancing. At least when Tutsy stepped out of the cleanser cubicle at night, her day’s work was all washed away, no harm done. When Ellin cleaned up at the end of the day, her feet were often still bleeding.
Being pregnant might be profitable, but Ellin wouldn’t care for it, no thank you! All that bloating and being sick! All those months unable to dance! She’d have to gain ten or twenty pounds even to be fertile, and she hated the idea. Her body was precious. It was her, all she had, and she didn’t want it changed. The idea was ridiculous. Sex was ridiculous, despite the stories people told about dancers, about their probable sexual habits, spending so many hours cooped up together. That was a laugh. Mostly the female dancers were too tired and half starved to even think about sex. Some of them didn’t even menstruate.
She was still carrying the cup when she entered Wardrobe. Taking tableware was against the rules, so she sneaked down the closest aisle to her own dressing area, hid the cup on her locker shelf behind the wigs, and wadded the wet disposables directly into the chute, cursing beneath her breath. She’d expected to get at least three or four days out of this set, and here they were, ruined. Disposables were charged to her contract. Meals were charged to her contract. There was no charge for housing, but then, one couldn’t really call a cubicle housing.
Getting into the Dorothy costume took only a moment, the blue-and-white checked skirt, the little apron, the puff-shouldered, high-necked blouse with all the buttons. The blouse had been designed for Ellin, with a high neck and long, slender arms. She took the Dorothy wig from its stand and held it ready as she entered the name of the character in the makeup frame that gaped in the locker door and thrust her face into it, holding her breath while it went dabby-dab-dab, plucky-pluck at her. She focused her mind on the Yellow Brick Road sequence, summoning the music, feeling the role, the stretch and release of muscle, the gathering and loosing of sinew and strength.
When the mirror dinged and she stepped back, someone behind her looked over her shoulder into the mirror. Snow Olafson, who’d sneaked up on her and now lifted an eyebrow, giving her a smoky look.
He whispered, “I hear you and Par are signing a contract.”