The four people seated at the dark mahogany table could not have been more unsuited for the purpose of their meeting. Mr. Weeks flicked his glasses against his palm, coughed once and smiled tightly at the assembled group. He was the most youthful of the four and had fallen into the role of unofficially conducting their meetings.

“Good evening. I suppose we all know why we’re here, so let’s get right to it. As we put together this list, please keep in mind the limited number of available invitations, and remember the less weight we’re traveling with, the better!”

“I guess that’s the end of sumo wrestling,” Mr. Lontrelle commented. His pale lips sagged into a mournful frown, but he had a perpetually gloomy face so no one could tell if he was serious.

“It’s the end of Barnabas, too!” Mrs. Caractacus balefully eyed Mr. Barnabas’ girth. “His pudge will take up two spots alone. We can’t waste that kind of space.”

“Your tact never fails to charm me, madam,” Mr. Barnabas sneered from across the table. He strained against the sides of his dark leather chair to provoke her.

“Please, everybody, let’s not digress into bickering so soon,” Mr. Weeks chided. “At the end of our last meeting, we voted to individually develop invitation lists and bring copies for everyone.” The table was empty except for a blue three-ring binder placed squarely in front of him. “I see none of you did that. Very well then, I shall do the honor of presenting my list first.” Mr. Weeks stood and neatly unhooked three crisp pieces of paper from his binder, which he distributed around the table. Once everyone had glanced through the meticulously arranged text, he lightly tapped the table and recited a speech written on his personal copy.

“My primary criteria for inclusion were education and intelligence. I believe only the brightest and most astute minds should be guaranteed a spot. We must give every consideration to scientists, teachers, doctors of both physical and psychological illnesses, as well as businessmen who have built their fortunes from the ground up and not succumbed to corporate corruption. God gave every man an extra helping of brains to set us apart from lesser creatures, and I wouldn’t dream of denying the usefulness of his gift.”

“God gave every man a head too, Weeks, but that doesn’t mean you have to stick it up your own rear,” Mrs. Caractacus snapped, elbowing Mr. Lontrelle into weak agreement.

Vivid color rose across Mr. Weeks face. “Never…such vulgarity…” He sputtered uselessly for a moment until Mr. Barnabas tugged him down into his chair.

“Don’t mind her,” he ordered directly into Mr. Weeks’ left ear. “She’s just a crass old biddy who married for money.”

“Of course I did, heaven rest the gent’s soul.” Mrs. Caractacus twirled her coffee mug, which she hadn’t touched in favor of a glass of orange juice.

“Ghastly manners!” Mr. Weeks snapped before Mr. Lontrelle slowly steered the discussion back on track like a barge turning against the flow of a river.

“I personally disagree with you, Weeks, over the practicality of inviting teachers.” Mr. Weeks looked at him suspiciously, as if he expected the criticism to contain a veiled harassment. “I don’t wish to impart the impression that they’re worthless, but when will we have the time or means to schedule lessons? And how can we be sure to choose teachers who have relevant and useful information?”

“How are we choosing anyone on this list? We’ll draw names out of a tophat,” Mrs. Caractacus said. Her wrinkles folded into a mirthful grin, but collapsed when she saw Mr. Lontrelle was visibly horrified by her suggestion. “That was called sarcasm, you silly old man. I agree with you, however. Take them off the list, Weeks.”

Mr. Weeks nodded his assent and crossed out the profession, relieved that her acid tongue had been diverted. “What candidates did you include on your list?” he politely asked Mr. Lontrelle.

The question caught Mr. Lontrelle off guard as he checked the top of everyone’s heads to make sure they weren’t wearing tophats. “I haven’t much thought about it.” The other three occupants of the table groaned inwardly.

“Just… off the top of your head then, old chap.”

Mr. Lontrelle stared at the table until his eyes went unfocused and slid shut. “Artists. Inventors. Creators. All living in a community dedicated to creativity and imagination. Discovering new materials, new concepts, new colors! Keeping peace with the world and ourselves, maintaining a balanced communal atmosphere. It would be like Utopia.”

Mr. Barnabas snorted unkindly. “Your fancy little social experiment would do quite splendidly, Lontrelle. After someone discovers the most addictive substance on the planet, you’ll all be so euphoric you won’t care when the predators come along and shred you into a bloody mess.”

Mr. Lontrelle’s eyes shot open. “Your list is obviously better then, Mr. Barnabas?”

“Darn straight it is. We need candidates with vigor and energy.” He decisively pummeled the polished table. “Life will be difficult, close to impossible at times. Everyone should be young without compromising experience. Soldiers, laborers, craftsmen – people who can handle building fires, shelters and tools. We can’t expect to show up and have a neighborhood suburb already waiting for us. We’ll have to survive the crash landing, for starters.”

He glanced around at their shocked faces and cried out in disbelief, “Surely I’m not the only one who has thought this the whole way through! Even you, Weeks, didn’t you save room on your list for some muscle? You didn’t expect a crew of teachers and businessmen to dig in and get their hands dirty?”

Mr. Weeks huffed indignantly. “We’ll bring machines and weapons, of course, Barnabas—”

“Oh yes, weapons—weapons that’ll run out of bullets and machines that break into useless pieces! Technology requires maintenance, which we’ll be in sorry supply of.”

“The astronomers claimed this planet was similar to Earth. We’ll make do with equivalent materials.”

“If it supports life and has a breathable atmosphere then it’s ‘like’ Earth. Astronomers go crazy over stuff like that. We’ll be lucky if the ground isn’t full of toxins.”

“Are you suggesting the plants we bring might not take root in New Earth’s soil?”

“It’s quite possible, in fact even likely. With our luck one kind will flourish and prove impossible to eradicate, eventually destroying the entire ecosystem!”

“Fine with me, so long as it’s not tomatoes,” Mrs. Caractacus chimed in. “I can’t stand those foul things.”

“Who said we’re not bringing tomatoes?” Mr. Lontrelle asked in alarm. “When did we decide to not bring tomatoes?”

“Dammit, Lontrelle,” Mr. Weeks said. “The tomatoes are coming. Stop putting ideas in his head, Mrs. Caractacus. We have more imperative problems to argue about.”

“Well nobody ever asked me if I’d like to get stuck with these sorts of decisions. I expected to invest all my money and be done with it!” She glared at the men in accusation, as if they had conspired to dump this responsibility on her frail shoulders.

“None of us could have known what we were buying into, Mrs. Caractacus,” Mr. Weeks began soothingly. “It’s terribly barbaric to think that our spaceliner, built for leisure and recreation, is now one of the only ways off this planet—”

“But the sun broke and there’s no way to fix it, so just hush your old trap and—”

“—and let’s just be thankful we had the foresight to build Space Escape,” Mr. Weeks finished hastily.

Barnabas, miffed at Mr. Week’s interjection, heckled the old woman further. “Would you care to present your list then, Mrs. Caractacus? Or shall we just assume you’ll reserve a space for your dog and be done with it?”

“Barnabas, you old lout! Assume whatever you please. At least one spot is all I’m asking for.”

His heavy jaw sagged. “You can’t possibly…”

She sucked noisily on her gums and fixed him with a vicious stare. “What’s wrong with bringing Toodles?”

She posed the question delicately but inside her demand rested a greater issue.

“Madam,” Mr. Barnabas began gravely, “Madam, we can not afford to lose an entire body of knowledge for a little yippy dog that lacks any purpose on this voyage. It’s not some tea party we’re having out in the countryside next weekend!”

“Perhaps if you held him in your lap, Mrs. Caractacus,” Mr. Weeks suggested with a supportive smile and small nods of his head.

“Absolutely not! Toodles deserves his own space, the same as anyone.”

“He’ll get underfoot and need a separate supply of food, and he’s obviously not well tempered. Mr. Lontrelle still has scabs from last week!” Mr. Barnabas gestured at Mr. Lontrelle, who went pale and hid his arm underneath the table.

Mr. Barnabas continued his reasoning: “We are asking seventy-one people to shed their families, discard their lifestyles and completely start over on a foreign planet. A well-trained surgeon could literally mean the difference between us all living and perishing. Truly, who are we to play the role of some deity, weighing souls and inviting the worthy ones into our spaceship of salvation? Who are you, Mrs. Caractacus, to say your stupid dog is as valuable as a doctor?”

“I never said he was! He shits just like everything else! But I bought my share of this miserable ship just like you all did so I get an equal say in who I want to come with us. You should be glad I’m not demanding to bring my yoga instructor.”

“That’s exactly what I meant! You think Toodles is going to be more helpful on New Earth than a young, muscular—”

“Watch it, hefty! Don’t talk about him like some piece of meat—”

“Toodles or the overpriced butt-flexer?”

“Barnabas!” Mrs. Caractacus shrieked as she jumped out of her chair. “You’re a fat, wretched heap of lard!” She clawed across the table towards the pudgy man, who pushed back in alarm. The chair might have rolled away to safety, but it lacked wheels and instead tipped his girth backwards onto the dark blue carpet. He flailed like an overturned beetle. “Unpardonable excuse for a human!” Mrs. Caractacus started whacking him on the stomach with her cane.

“Crazy woman!” he hollered in between blows. “You’re a diabolical nuisance!”

Mr. Weeks dragged the old lady back to her chair and received a nasty crack to his temple. “Please, Mrs. Caractacus, there’s absolutely no call for violence!”

She gripped her cane like a sword and hollered, “You haven’t seen violence yet, sonny!”

“Satan worshipping witch,” Mr. Barnabas wheezed as Lontrelle heaved him to his feet. His swollen face shimmered from exertion and rage. “I’ll flatten your dog into a pancake before I allow it on my spaceliner!”

“It’s not your choice to make, Barnabas. Let’s take a vote,” Mr. Weeks suggested in exasperation. “We already know Mrs. Caractacus and Barnabas will cancel each other out, so it’s up to us, Lontrelle.”

Mr. Lontrelle blinked. “I don’t see how this will be feasible. If there’s only two people voting, what happens in the event of a tie?”

Mr. Weeks jerked his head a few times to check his temper. “Fine then, Toodles is coming with us. Mrs. Caractacus will not be permitted to bring any other passengers. No one is allowed to mention it again.”

Mr. Lontrelle looked around as if something had just flown past his head. Mrs. Caractacus preened smugly at Mr. Barnabas, who suffered a violent coughing fit before gasping, “Weeks, I can’t believe you’re this daft!”

“Not another word, Barnabas!” Mr. Weeks yelled. A pulsing vein popped out on his forehead. “No one has the authority to decide who lives and stays, but apparently we’re the closest thing to it so this list needs to be finished tonight!”

An apprehensive silence settled over the meeting room.

“I feel terrible condemning all but seventy-one people in the world to certain death,” Mr. Lontrelle admitted quietly.

Mr. Weeks slumped in his chair. “I don’t give a damn. It’s God who should feel ashamed for leaving the decision up to us.”