"It's Great to Be Back!"

"HURRY UP, ALLAN!" Home-back to Earth again! Her heart was pounding.

      "Just a second." She fidgeted while her husband checked over a bare apartment. Earth-Moon freight rates made it silly to ship their belongings; except for the bag he carried, they had converted everything to cash. Satisfied, he joined her at the lift; they went on up to the administration level and there to a door marked: LUNA CITY COMMUNITY ASSOCIATION-Anna Stone, Service Manager.

      Miss Stone accepted their apartment keys grimly. "Mr. and Mrs. MacRae. So you're actually leaving us?"

      Josephine bristled. "Think we'd change our minds?"

      The manager shrugged. "No. I knew nearly three years ago that you would go back-from your complaints."

      "From my comp- Miss Stone, I've been as patient about the incredible inconveniences of this, this pressurized rabbit warren as anyone. I don't blame you personally, but-"

      "Take it easy, Jo!" her husband cautioned her.

      Josephine flushed. "Sorry, Miss Stone."

      "Never mind. We just see things differently. I was here when Luna City was three air-sealed Quonset huts connected by tunnels you crawled through, on your knees." She stuck out a square hand. "I hope you enjoy being groundhogs again, I honestly do. Hot jets, good luck, and a safe landing."

      Back in the lift, Josephine sputtered. "'Groundhogs' indeed! Just because we prefer our native planet, where a person can draw a breath of fresh air-"

      "You use the term," Allan pointed out.

      "But I use it about people who've never been off Terra."

      "We've both said more than once that we wished we had had sense enough never to have left Earth. We're groundhogs at heart, Jo."

      "Yes, but- Oh, Allan, you're being obnoxious. This is the happiest day of my life. Aren't you glad to be going home? Aren't you?"

      "Of course I am. It'll be great to be back. Horseback riding. Skiing."

      "And opera. Real, live grand opera. Allan, we've simply got to have a week or two in Manhattan before we go to the country."

      "I thought you wanted to feel rain on your face."

      "I want that, too. I want it all at once and I can't wait. Oh, darling, it's like getting out of jail." She clung to him.

      He unwound her as the lift stopped. "Don't blubber."

      "Allan, you're a beast," she said dreamily. "I'm so happy." They stopped again, in bankers' row. The clerk in the National City Bank office had their transfer of account ready. "Going home, eh? Just sign there, and your print. I envy you. Hunting, fishing."

      "Surf bathing is more my style. And sailing."

      "I," said Jo, "simply want to see green trees and blue sky." The clerk nodded. "I know what you mean. It's long ago and far away. Well, have fun. Are you taking three months or six?"

      "We're not coming back," Allan stated flatly. "Three years of living like a fish in an aquarium is enough."

      "So?" The clerk shoved the papers toward him and added without expression, "Well-hot jets."

      "Thanks." They went on up to the subsurface level and took the cross-town slidewalk out to the rocket port. The slidewalk tunnel broke the surface at one point, becoming a pressurized shed; a view window on the west looked out on the surface of the Moon-and, beyond the hills, the Earth.

      The sight of it, great and green and bountiful, against, the black lunar sky and harsh, unwinking stars, brought quick tears to Jo's eyes. Home-that lovely planet was hers! Allan looked at it more casually, noting the Greenwich. The sunrise Line had just touched South America-must be about eight twenty; better hurry.

      They stepped off the slidewalk into the arms of some of their friends, waiting to see them off. "Hey-where have you Lugs been? The Gremlin blasts off in seven minutes."

      "But we aren't going in it," MacRae answered. "No, siree."

      "What? Not going? Did you change your minds?"

      Josephine laughed. "Pay no attention to him, Jack. We're going in the express instead; we swapped reservations. So we've got twenty minutes yet."

      "Well! A couple of rich tourists, eh?"

      "Oh, the extra fare isn't so much and I didn't want to make two changes and spend a week in space when we could be home in two days." She rubbed her bare middle significantly.

      "She can't take free flight, Jack," her husband explained.

      "Well, neither can I - I was sick the whole trip out. Still, I don't think you'll be sick, Jo; you're used to Moon weight now."

      "Maybe," she agreed, "but there is a lot of difference between one-sixth gravity and no gravity."

      Jack Crail's wife cut in. "Josephine MacRae, are you going to risk your life in an atomic-powered ship?"

      "Why not, darling? You work in an atomics laboratory."

      "Hummph! In the laboratory we take precautions. The Commerce Commission should never have licensed the expresses. I may be old-fashioned, but I'll go back the way I came, via Terminal and Supra-New York, in good old reliable fuel-rockets."

      "Don't try to scare her, Emma," Crail objected. "They've worked the bugs out of those ships."

      "Not to my satisfaction. I-"

      "Never mind," Allan interrupted her. "The matter is settled, and we've still got to get over to the express launching site. Good-by, everybody! Thanks for the send-off. It's been grand knowing you. If you come back to God's country, look us up."

      "Good-by, kids!" "Good-by, Jo-good-by, Allan." "Give my regards to Broadway!" "So long-be sure to write." "Good-by." "Aloha-hot jets!" They showed their tickets, entered the air lock, and climbed into the pressurized shuttle between Leyport proper and the express launching site. "Hang on, 'folks," the shuttle operator called back over his shoulder; Jo and Allan hurriedly settled into the cushions. The lock opened; the tunnel ahead was airless. Five minutes later they were climbing out twenty miles away, beyond the hills that shielded the lid of Luna City from the radioactive splash of the express ships.

      In the Sparrowhawk they shared a compartment with a missionary family. The Reverend Doctor Simmons felt obliged to explain why he was traveling in luxury. "It's for the child," he told them, as his wife strapped the baby girl into a small acceleration couch rigged stretcher-fashion between her parents' couches. "Since she's never been in space, we daren't take a chance of her being sick for days on end." They all strapped down at the warning siren. Jo felt her heart begin to pound. At last ... at long last!

      The jets took hold, mashing them into the cushions. Jo had not known she could feel so heavy. This was worse, much worse, than the trip out. The baby cried as long as acceleration lasted, in wordless terror and discomfort.

      After an interminable time they were suddenly weightless, as the ship went into free flight. When the terrible binding weight was free of her chest, Jo's heart felt as light as her body. Allan threw off his upper strap and sat up. "How do you feel, kid?"

      "Oh, I feel fine!" Jo unstrapped and faced him. Then she hiccoughed. "That is, I think I do."

      Five minutes later she was not in doubt; she merely wished to die. Allan swam out of the compartment and located the ship's surgeon, who gave her an injection. Allan waited until she had succumbed to the drug, then left for the lounge to try his own cure for spacesickness - Mothersill's Seasick Remedy washed down with champagne. Presently he had to admit that these two sovereign remedies did not work for him-or perhaps he should not have mixed them.

      Little Gloria Simmons was not spacesick. She thought being weightless was fun, and went bouncing off floorplate, overhead, and bulkhead like a dimpled balloon. Jo feebly considered strangling the child, if she floated within reach-but it was too much effort.

      Deceleration, logy as it made them feel, was welcome relief after nausea-except to little Gloria. She cried again, in fear and hurt, while her mother tried to explain. Her father prayed.

      After a long, long time came a slight jar and the sound of the siren. Jo managed to raise her head. "What's the matter? Is there an accident?"

      "I don't think so. I think we've landed."

      'We can't have! We're still braking-I'm heavy as lead."

      Allan grinned feebly. "So am I. Earth gravity-remember?"

      The baby continued to cry.

      They said good-by to the missionary family, as Mrs. Simmons decided to wait for a stewardess from the skyport. The MacRaes staggered out of the ship, supporting each other. "It can't be just the gravity," Jo protested, her feet caught in invisible quicksand. "I've taken Earth-normal acceleration in the centrifuge at the 'Y', back home-I mean back in Luna City. We're weak from spacesickness."

      Allan steadied himself. "That's it. We haven't eaten anything for two days."

      "Allan-didn't you eat anything either?'

      "No. Not permanently, so tospy. Are you hungry?"

      "Starving."

      "How about dinner at Kean's Chophouse?"

      "Wonderful. Oh, Allan, we're back!" Her tears started again.

      They glimpsed the Simmonses once more, after chuting down the Hudson Valley and into Grand Central Station. While they were waiting at the tube dock for their bag, Jo saw the Reverend Doctor climb heavily out of the next tube capsule, carrying his daughter and followed by his wife. He set the child down carefully. Gloria stood for a moment, trembling on her pudgy legs, then collapsed to the dock. She lay there, crying thinly.

      A spaceman-pilot, by his uniform-stopped and looked pityingly at the child. "Born in the Moon?" he asked.

      "Why yes, she was, sir." Simmons' courtesy transcended his troubles.

      "Pick her up and carry her. She'll have to learn to walk all over again." The spaceman shook his head sadly and glided away. Simmons looked still more troubled, then sat down on the dock beside his child, careless of the dirt.

      Jo felt too weak to help. She looked around for Allan, but he was busy; their bag had arrived. It was placed at his feet and he started to pick it up, and then felt suddenly silly. It seemed nailed to the dock. He knew what was in it, rolls of microfilm and colorfilm, a few souvenirs, toilet articles, various irreplaceables-fifty pounds of mass. It couldn't weigh what it seemed to.

      But it did. He had forgotten what fifty pounds weigh on Earth.

      "Porter, mister?' The speaker was grey-haired and thin, but he scooped up the bag quite casually. Allan called out, "Come along, Jo." and followed him, feeling foolish. The porter slowed to match Allan's labored steps.

      "Just down from the Moon?" he asked.

      "Why, yes."

      "Got a reservation?"

      "No."

      "You stick with me. I've got a friend on the desk at the Commodore." He led them to the Concourse slidewalk and thence to the hotel.

      They were too weary to dine out; Allan had dinner sent to their room. Afterward, Jo fell asleep in a hot tub and he had trouble getting her out-she liked the support the water gave her. But he persuaded her that a rubber-foam mattress was nearly as good. They got to sleep very early.

      She woke up, struggling, about four in the morning. "Allan. Allan!"

      "Huh? What's the matter?" His hand fumbled at the light switch.

      "Uh . . . nothing I guess. I dreamed I was back in the ship. The jets had run away with her. Allan, what makes it so stuffy in here? I've got a splitting headache."

      "Huh? It can't be stuffy. This joint is air-conditioned." He sniffed the air. "I've got a headache, too," he admitted.

      "Well, do something. Open a window."

      He stumbled out of bed, shivered when the outer air hit him, and hurried back under the covers. He was wondering whether he could get to sleep with the roar of the city pouring in through the window when his wife spoke again. "Allan?"

      "Yes. What is it?"

      "Honey, I'm cold. May I crawl in with you?"

      "Sure."

      The sunlight streamed in the window, warm and mellow. When it touched his eyes, he woke and found his wife awake beside him. She sighed and snuggled. "Oh, darling, look! Blue sky-we're home. I'd forgotten how lovely it is."

      "It's great to be back, all right. How do you feel?"

      "Much better. How are you?"

      "Okay, I guess." He pushed off the covers.

      Jo squealed and jerked them back. "Don't do that!"

      "Huh?"

      "Mama's great big boy is going to climb out and close that window while mamma stays here under the covers."

      "Well-all right." He could walk more easily than the night before-but it was good to get back into bed. Once there, he faced the telephone and shouted, at it, "Service!"

      "Order, please," it answered in a sweet contralto.

      "Orange juice and coffee for two-extra coffee-six eggs, scrambled medium, and whole-wheat toast. And send up a Times, and the Saturday Evening Post."

      "Ten minutes."

      "Thank you." The delivery cupboard buzzed while he was shaving. He answered it and served Jo breakfast in bed. Breakfast over, he laid down his newspaper and said, "Can you pull your nose out of that magazine?"

      "Glad to. The darn thing is too big and heavy to hold."

      "Why don't you have the stat edition mailed to you from Luna City? Wouldn't cost more than eight or nine times as much."

      "Don't be silly. What's on your mind?"

      "How about climbing out of that frosty little nest and going with me to shop for clothes?"

      "Uh-uh. No, I am not going outdoors in a moonsuit."

      "'Fraid of being stared at? Getting prudish in your old age?"

      "No, me lord, I simply refuse to expose myself to the outer air in six ounces of nylon and a pair of sandals. I want some warm clothes first." She squirmed further down under the covers.

      "The Perfect Pioneer Woman. Going to have fitters sent up?"

      "We can't afford that. Look - you're going anyway. Buy me just any old rag so long as it's warm."

      MacRae looked stubborn. "I've tried shopping for you before."

      "Just this once - please. Run over to Saks and pick out a street dress in a blue wool jersey, size ten. And a pair of nylons."

      "Well-all right."

      "That's a lamb. I won't be loafing. I've a list as long as your arm of people I've promised to call up, look 'up, have lunch with."

      He attended to his own shopping first; his sensible shorts and singlet seemed as warm as a straw hat in a snowstorm. It was not really cold and was quite balmy in the sun, but it seemed cold to a man used to a never-failing seventy-two degrees. He tried to stay underground, or stuck to the roofed-over section of Fifth Avenue.

      He suspected that the salesmen had outfitted him in clothes that made him look like a yokel But they were warm. They were also heavy; they added to the pain across his chest and made him walk even more unsteadily. He wondered how long it would be before he got his ground-legs.

      A motherly saleswoman took care of Jo's order and sold him a warm cape for her as well. He headed back, stumbling under his packages, and trying futilely to flag a ground-taxi. Everyone seemed in such a hurry! Once he was nearly knocked down by a teen-aged boy who said, "Watch it, Gramps!" and rushed off, before he could answer.

      He got back, aching all over and thinking about a hot bath. He did not get it; Jo had a visitor. "Mrs. Appleby, my husband-Allan, this is Emma Crail's mother."

      "Oh, how do you do, Doctor-or should it be 'Professor'?"

      "Mister-"

      "-when I heard you were in town I just couldn't wait to hear all about my poor darling. How is she? Is she thin? Does she look well? These modern girls-I've told her time and again that she must get out of doors-I walk in the Park every day-and look at me. She sent me a picture-I have it here somewhere; at least I think I have-and she doesn't look a bit well, undernourished. Those synthetic foods-"

      "She doesn't eat synthetic foods, Mrs. Appleby."

      "-must be quite impossible, I'm sure, not to mention the taste. What were you saying?'

      "Your daughter doesn't live on synthetic foods," Allan repeated. "Fresh fruits and vegetables are one thing we have almost too much of in Luna City. The air-conditioning plant, you know."

      "That's just what I was saying. I confess I don't see just how you get food out of air-conditioning machinery on the Moon-"

      "In the Moon, Mrs. Appleby."

      "-but it can't be healthy. Our air-conditioner at home is always breaking down and making the most horrible smells - simply unbearable, my dears-you'd think they could build a simple little thing like an air-conditioner so that-though of course if you expect them to manufacture synthetic foods as well-" "Mm. Appleby-"

      "Yes, Doctor? What were you saying? Don't let me-"

      "Mrs. Appleby," MacRae said desperately, "the airconditioning plant in Luna City is a hydroponic farm, tanks of growing plants, green things. The plants take the carbon dioxide out of the air and put oxygen back in."

      "But- Are you quite sure, Doctor? I'm sure Emma said-"

      "Quite sure."

      "Well . . . I don't pretend to understand these things, I'm the artistic type. Poor Herbert often said-Herbert was Emma's father; simply wrapped up in his engineering though I always saw to it that he heard good music and saw the reviews of the best books. Emma takes after her father, I'm afraid-I do wish she would give up that silly work she is in. Hardly the sort of work for a woman, do you think, Mrs. MacRae? All those atoms and neuters and things floating around in the air. I read all about it in the Science Made Simple column in the-"

      "She's quite good at it and she seems to like it."

      "Well, yes, I suppose. That's the important thing, to be happy at what you are doing no matter how silly it is. But I worry about the child-buried away from civilization, no one of her own sort to talk to, no theaters, no cultural life, no society-"

      "Luna City has stereo transcriptions of every successful Broadway play." Jo's voice had a slight edge.

      "Oh! Really? But it's not just going to the theater, my dear; it's the society of gentlefolk. Now when I was a girl, my parents-"

      Allan butted in, loudly. "One o'clock. Have you had lunch, my dear?'

      Mrs. Appleby sat up with a jerk. "Oh, heavenly days - I simply must fly. My dress designer-such a tyrant, but a genius; I must give you her address. It's been charming, my dears, and I can't thank you too much for telling me all about my poor darling. I do wish she would be sensible like you two; she knows I'm always ready to make a home for her-and her husband, for that matter. Now do come and see me, often. I love to talk to people who've been on the Moon-"

      "In the Moon."

      "It makes me feel closer to my darling. Good-by, then."

      With the door locked behind her, Jo said, "Allan, I need a drink."

      "I'll join you."

      Jo cut her shopping short; it was too tiring. By four o'clock they were driving in Central Park, enjoying fall scenery to the lazy clop-clop of home's hoofs. The helicopters, the pigeons, the streak in the sky where the Antipodes rocket had passed, made a scene idyllic in beauty and serenity. Jo swallowed a lump in her throat and whispered, "Allan, isn't it beautiful?"

      "Sure is. It's great to be back. Say, did you notice they've torn up 42nd Street again?"

      Back in their room, Jo collapsed on her bed, while Allan took off his shoes. He sat, rubbing his feet, and remarked, "I'm going barefooted all evening. Golly, how my feet hurt!"

      "So do mine. But we're going to your father's, my sweet."

      "Huh? Oh, damn, I forgot. Jo, whatever possessed you? Call him up and postpone it. We're still half dead from the trip."

      "But, Allan, he's invited a lot of your friends."

      "Balls of fire and cold mush! I haven't any real friends in New York. Make it next week."

      "'Next week' . . . hmm . . . look, Allan, let's go out to the country right away." Jo's parents had left her a tiny place in Connecticut, a worn-out farm.

      "I thought you wanted a couple of weeks of plays and music first. Why the sudden change?"

      "I'll show you." She went to the window, open since noon. "Look at that window sill." She drew their initials in the grime. "Allan, this city is filthy."

      "You can't expect ten million people not to kick up dust."

      "But we're breathing that stuff into our lungs. What's happened to the smog-control laws?'

      "That's not smog; that's normal city dirt."

      "Luna City was never like this. I could wear a white outfit there till I got tired of it. One wouldn't last a day here."

      "Manhattan doesn't have a roof-and precipitrons in every air duct."

      "Well, it should have. I either freeze or suffocate."

      "I thought you were anxious to feel rain on your face?'

      "Don't be tiresome. I want it out in the clean, green country."

      "Okay. I want to start my book anyhow. I'll call your real estate agent."

      "I called him this morning. We can move in anytime; he started fixing up the place when he got my letter."

      It was a stand-up supper at his father's home though Jo sat down at once and let food be fetched. Allan wanted to sit down, but his status as guest of honor forced him to stay on his aching feet. His father buttonholed him at the buffet. "Here, son, try this goose liver. It ought to go well after a diet of green cheese."

      Allan agreed that it was good.

      "See here, son, you really ought to tell these folks about your trip."

      "No speeches, Dad. Let 'em read the National Geographic."

      "Nonsense!" He turned around. "Quiet, everybody! Allan is going to tell us how the Lunatics live."

      Allan bit his lip. To be sure, the citizens of Luna City used the term to each other, but it did not sound the same here. "Well, really, I haven't anything to say. Go on and eat."

      "You talk and we'll eat." "Tell us about Looney City." "Did you see the Man-in-the-Moon?" "Go on, Allan, what's it like to live on the Moon?"

      "Not 'on the Moon'-in the Moon."

      "What's the difference?"

      "Why, none, I guess." He hesitated; there was really no way to explain why the Moon colonists emphasized that they lived under the surface of the satellite planet-but it irritated him the way "Frisco" irritates a San Franciscan. "'In the Moon' is the way we say it. We don't spend much time on the surface, except for the staff at Richardson Observatory, and the prospectors, and so forth. The living quarters are underground, naturally."

      "Why 'naturally'? Afraid of meteors?"

      "No more than you are afraid of lightning. We go underground for insulation against heat and cold and as support for pressure sealing. Both are cheaper and easier underground. The soil is easy to work and the interstices act like vacuum in a thermos bottle. It is vacuum."

      "But Mr. MacRae," a serious-looking lady inquired, "doesn't it hurt your ears to live under pressure?'

      Allan fanned the air. "It's the same pressure here-fifteen pounds."

      She looked puzzled, then said, "Yes, I suppose so, but it is a little hard to imagine. I think it would terrify me to be sealed up in a cave. Suppose you had a blow-out?"

      "Holding fifteen pounds pressure is no problem; engineers work in thousands of pounds per square inch. Anyhow, Luna City is compartmented like a ship. It's safe enough. The Dutch live behind dikes; down in Mississippi they have levees. Subways, ocean liners, aircraft-they're all artificial ways of living. Luna City seems strange just because it's far away."

      She shivered. "It scares me."

      A pretentious little man pushed his way forward. "Mr. MacRae-granted that it is nice for science and all that, why should taxpayers' money be wasted on a colony on the Moon?"

      "You seem to have answered yourself," Allan told him slowly.

      "Then how do you justify it? Tell me that, sir."

      "It isn't necessary to justify it; the Lunar colony has paid for itself several times over. The Lunar corporations are all paying propositions. Artemis Mines, Spaceways, Spaceways Provisioning Corporation, Diana Recreations, Electronics Research Company, Lunar Biological Labs, not to mention all of Rutherford - look 'em up. I'll admit the Cosmic Research Project nicks the taxpayer a little, since it's a joint enterprise of the Harriman Foundation and the government."

      "Then you admit it. It's the principle of the thing."

      Allan's feet were hurting him very badly indeed. "What principle? Historically, research has always paid off." He turned his back and looked for some more goose liver.

      A man touched him on the arm; Allan recognized an old schoolmate. "Allan, old boy, congratulations on the way you ticked off old Beetle. He's been needing it-I think he's some sort of a radical."

      Allan grinned. "I shouldn't have lost my temper."

      "A good job you did. Say, Allan, I'm going to take a couple of out-of-town buyers around to the hot spots tomorrow night. Come along."

      "Thanks a lot, but we're going out in the country."

      "Oh, you can't afford to miss this party. After all, you've been buried on the Moon; you owe yourself some relaxation after that deadly monotony."

      Allan felt his cheeks getting warm. "Thanks just the same, but-ever seen the Earth View Room in Hotel Moon Haven?'

      "No. Plan to take the trip when I've made my pile, of course."'

      "Well, there's a night club for you. Ever see a dancer leap thirty feet into the air and do slow rolls, on the way down? Ever try a lunacy cocktail? Ever see a juggler work in low gravity?" Jo caught his eye across the room. "Er . . . excuse me, old man. My wife wants me." He turned away, then flung back over his shoulder, "Moon Haven itself isn't just a spaceman's dive, by the way-it's recommended by the Duncan Hines Association."

      Jo was very pale. "Darling, you've got to get me out of here. I'm suffocating. I'm really ill."

      "Suits." They made their excuses.

      Jo woke up with a stuffy cold, so they took a cab directly to her country place. There were low-lying clouds under them, but the weather was fine above. The sunshine and the drowsy beat of the rotors regained for them the joy of homecoming,

      Allan broke the lazy reverie. "Here's a funny thing, Jo. You couldn't hire me to go back to the Moon-but last night I found myself defending the Loonies every time I opened my mouth."

      She nodded. "I know. Honest to Heaven, Allan, some people act as if the Earth were flat. Some of them don't really believe in anything, and some of them are so matter-of-fact that you know they don't really understand-and I don't know which sort annoys me the more."

      It was foggy when they landed, but the house was clean, the agent had laid a fire and had stocked the refrigerator. They were sipping hot punch and baking the weariness out of their bones' within ten minutes after the copter grounded. "This," said Allan, stretching, "is all right. It really is great to be back."

      "Uh-huh. All except the highway." A new express and freight superhighway now ran not fifty yards from the house. They could hear the big diesels growling as they struck the grade.

      "Forget the highway. Turn your back and you stare straight into the woods."

      They regained their ground-legs well enough to enjoy short walks in the woods; they were favored with a long, warm Indian summer; the cleaning woman was efficient and taciturn. Allan worked on the results of three years research preparatory to starting his book. Jo helped him with the statistical work, got reacquainted with the delights of cooking, dreamed, and rested.

      It was the day of the first frost that the toilet stopped up.

      The village plumber was persuaded to show up the next day. Meanwhile they resorted to a homely little building, left over from another era and still standing out beyond the woodpile. It was spider-infested and entirely too well ventilated.

      The plumber was not encouraging. "New septic tank. New sewer pipe. Pay you to get new fixtures at the same time. Fifteen, sixteen hundred dollars. Have to do some calculating."

      "That's all right," Allan told him. "Can you start today?'

      The man laughed. "I can see plainly, Mister, that you don't know what it is to get materials and labor these days. Next spring--soon as the frost is out of the ground."

      "That's impossible, man. Never mind the cost. Get it done."

      The native shrugged. "Sorry not to oblige you. Good day." When he left, Jo exploded. "Allan, he doesn't want to help us."

      "Well-maybe. I'll try to get someone from Norwalk, or even from the City. You can't trudge through the snow out to that Iron Maiden all winter."

      "I hope not."

      "You must not. You've already had one cold." He stared morosely at the fire. "I suppose I brought it on by my misplaced sense of humor."

      "How?"

      "Well, you know how we've been subjected to steady kidding ever since it got noised around that we were colonials. I haven't minded much, but some of it rankled. You remember I went into the village by myself last Saturday?"

      "Yes. What happened?"

      "They started in on me in the barbershop. I let it ride at first, then the worm turned. I started talking about the Moon, sheer double-talk--corny old stuff like the vacuum worms and the petrified air. It was some time before they realized I was ribbing them-and when they did, nobody laughed. Our friend the rustic sanitary engineer was one of the group. I'm sorry."

      "Don't be." She kissed him. "If I have to tramp through the snow, it will cheer me that you gave them back some of their sass."

      The plumber from Norwalk was more helpful, but rain, and then sleet, slowed down the work. They both caught colds. On the ninth miserable day Allan was working at his desk when he heard Jo come in the back door, returning from a shopping trip. He turned back to his work, then presently became aware that she had not come in to say "hello." He went to investigate.

      He found her collapsed on a kitchen chair, crying quietly. "Darling," he said urgently, "honey baby, whatever is the matter?"

      She looked up. "I didn't bead to led you doe."

      "Blow your nose. Then wipe your eyes. What do you mean, 'you didn't mean to let me know'. What happened?"

      She let it out, punctuated with her handkerchief. First, the grocer had said he had no cleansing tissues; then, when she pointed to them, had stated that they were "sold". Finally, he had mentioned "bringing outside labor into town and taking the bread out of the mouths of honest folk".

      Jo had blown up and had rehashed the incident of Allan and the barbershop wits. The grocer had simply grown more stiff. "'Lady,' he said to me, 'I don't know whether you and your husband have been to the Moon or not, and I don't care. I don't take much stock in such things. In any case, I don't need your trade.' Oh, Allan, I'm so unhappy."

      "Not as unhappy as he's going to be! Where's my hat?"

      "Allan! You're not leaving this house. I won't have you fighting."

      "I won't have him bullying you."

      "He won't again. Oh my dear, I've tried so hard, but I can't stay here any longer. It's not just the villagers; it's the cold and the cockroaches and always having, a runny nose. I'm tired out and my feet hurt all the time." She started to cry again.

      "There, there! We'll leave, honey. We'll go to Florida. I'll finish my book while you lie in the sun."

      "Oh, I don't want to go to Florida. I want to go home."

      "Huh? You mean-back to Luna City?"

      "Yes. Oh, dearest, I know you don't want to, but I can't stand it any longer. It's not just the dirt and the cold and the comic-strip plumbing-it's not being understood. It wasn't any better in New York. These groundhogs don't know anything."

      He grinned at her. "Keep sending, kid; I'm on your frequency."

      "Allan!"

      He nodded. "I found out I was a Loony at heart quite a while ago-but I was afraid to tell you. My feet hurt, too- and I'm damn sick of being treated like a freak. I've tried to be tolerant, but I can't stand groundhogs. I miss the folks in dear old Luna. They're civilized."

      She nodded. "I guess it's prejudice, but I feel the same way."

      "It's not prejudice. Let's be honest. What does it take to get to Lana City?"

      "A ticket."

      "Smarty pants. I don't mean as a tourist; I mean to get a job there. You know the answer: Intelligence. It costs a lot to send a man to the Moon and more to keep him there. To pay off, he has to be worth a lot. High I.Q., good compatibility index, superior education-everything that makes a person pleasant and easy and interesting to have around. We've been spoiled; the ordinary human cussedness that groundhogs take for granted, we now find intolerable, because Loonies are different. The fact that Luna City is the most comfortable environment man ever built for himself is beside the point-it's the people who count. Let's go home."

      He went to the telephone-an old-fashioned, speech-only rig-and called the Foundation's New York office. While he was waiting, truncheon-like "receiver" to his ear, she said, "Suppose they won't have us?"

      "That's what worries me." They knew that the Lunar companies rarely rehired personnel who had once quit; the physical examination was reputed to be much harder the second time.

      "Hello . . . hello. Foundation? May I speak to the recruiting office? . . . hello-I can't turn on my view plate; this instrument is a hangover from the dark ages. This is Allan MacRae, physical chemist, contract number 1340729. And my wife, Josephine MacRae, 1340730. We want to sign up again. I said we wanted to sign up again . . . okay, I'll wait."

      "Pray, darling, pray!"

      "I'm praying- How's that! My appointment's still vacant? Fine, fine! How about my wife?" He listened with a worried look; Jo held her breath. Then he cupped the speaker. "Hey, Jo-your job's filled. They want to know if you'll take an interim job as a junior accountant?"

      "Tell 'em 'yes!'"

      "That'll be fine. When can we take our exams? That's fine, thanks. Good-by." He hung up and turned to his wife. "Physical and psycho as soon as we like; professional exams waived."

      "What are we waiting for?"

      "Nothing." He dialed the Norwalk Copter Service. "Can you run us into Manhattan? Well, good grief, don't you have radar? All right, all right, g'by!" He snorted. "Cabs all grounded by the weather. I'll call New York and try to get a modern cab."

      Ninety minutes later they landed on top of Harriman Tower.

      The psychologist was very cordial. "Might as well get this over before you have your chests thumped. Sit down. Tell me about yourselves." He drew them out, nodding from time to time. "I see. Did you ever get the plumbing repaired?"

      "Well, it was being fixed."

      "I can sympathize with your foot trouble, Mrs. MacRae; my arches always bother me here. That's your real reason, isn't it?"

      "Oh, no!"

      "Now, Mrs. MacRae-"

      "Really it's not---truly. I want people to talk to who know what I mean. All that's really wrong with me is that I'm homesick for my own sort. I want to go home-and I've got to have this job to get there. - I'll steady down, I know I will."

      The doctor looked grave. "How about you, Mr. MacRae?"

      "Well-it's about the same story. I've been trying to write a book, but I can't work. I'm homesick. I want to go back."

      Feldman suddenly smiled. "It won't be too difficult."

      "You mean we're in? If we pass the physical?"

      "Never mind the physical-your discharge examinations are recent enough. Of course you'll have to go out to Arizona for reconditioning and quarantine. You're probably wondering why it seems so easy when it is supposed to be so hard. It's really simple: We don't want people lured back by the high pay. We do want people who will be happy and as permanent as possible-in short, we want people who think of Luna City as 'home.' Now that you're 'Moonstruck,' we want you back." He stood up and shoved out his hand.

      Back in the Commodore that night, Jo was struck by a thought. "Allan-do you suppose we could get our own apartment back?"

      "Why, I don't know. We could send old lady Stone a radio."

      "Call her up instead, Allan. We can afford it."

      "All right! I will!"

      It took about ten minutes to get the circuit through. Miss Stone's face looked a trifle less grim when she recognized them.

      "Miss Stone, we're coming home!"

      There was the usual three-second lag, then-"Yes, I know. It came over the tape about twenty minutes ago."

      "Oh. Say, Miss Stone, is our old apartment vacant?" They waited.

      "I've held it; I knew you'd come back-after a bit. Welcome home, Loonies."

      When the screen cleared, Jo said, "What did she mean, Allan?"

      "Looks like we're in, kid. Members of the Lodge."

      "I guess so-oh, Allan, look!" She had stepped to the window; scudding clouds had just uncovered the Moon. It was three days old and Mare Fecunditatis-the roll of hair at the back of the Lady-in-the-Moon's head-was cleared by the Sunrise line. Near the right-hand edge of that great, dark "sea" was a tiny spot, visible only to their inner eyes-Luna City.

      The crescent hung, serene and silvery, over the tall buildings. "Darling, isn't it beautiful?"

      "Certainly is. It'll be great to be back. Don't get your nose all runny."

We Also Walk Dogs

      "General services -- Miss Cormet speaking!" She addressed the view screen with just the right balance between warm hospitable friendliness and impersonal efficiency. The screen flickered momentarily, then built up a stereo-picture of a dowager, fat and fretful, overdressed and underexercised.

      "Oh, my dear," said the image, "I'm so upset. I wonder if you can help me."

      "I'm sure we can," Miss Cormet purred as she quickly estimated the cost of the woman's gown and jewels (if real -- she made a mental reservation) and decided that here was a client that could be profitable. "Now tell me your trouble. Your name first, if you please." She touched a button on the horseshoe desk which enclosed her, a button marked CREDIT DEPARTMENT.

      "But it's all so _involved_," the image insisted. "Peter _would_ go and break his hip." Miss Cormet immediately pressed the button marked MEDICAL. "I've _told_ him that polo is dangerous. You've no idea, my dear, how a mother suffers. And just at this time, too. It's so inconvenient--"

      "You wish us to attend him? Where is he now?"

      "Attend him? Why, how silly! The Memorial Hospital will do that. We've endowed them enough, I'm sure. It's my dinner party I'm worried about. The Principessa will be so annoyed."

      The answer light from the Credit Department was blinking angrily. Miss Cormet headed her off. "Oh, I see. We'll arrange it for you. Now, your name, please, and your address and present location."

      "But don't you _know_ my name?"

      "One might guess," Miss Cormet diplomatically evaded, "but General Services always respects the privacy of its clients."

      "Oh, yes, of course. How considerate. I am Mrs. Peter van Hogbein Johnson." Miss Cormet controlled her reaction. No need to consult the Credit Department for this one. But its transparency flashed at once, rating AAA -- unlimited. "But I don't see what you can do," Mrs Johnson continued. "I can't be two places at once."

      "General Services likes difficult assignments," Miss Cormet assured her. "Now -- if you will let me have the details. . ."

      She wheedled and nudged the woman into giving a fairly coherent story. Her son, Peter III, a slightly shopworn Peter Pan, whose features were familiar to Grace Gormet through years of stereogravure, dressed in every conceivable costume affected by the richly idle in their pastimes, had been so thoughtless as to pick the afternoon before his mother's most important social function to bung himself up -- seriously. Furthermore, he had been so thoughtless as to do so half a continent away from his mater.

      Miss Cormet gathered that Mrs. Johnson's technique for keeping her son safely under thumb required that she rush to his bedside at once, and, incidentally, to select his nurses. But her dinner party that evening represented the culmination of months of careful maneuvering. What was she to do?

      Miss Cormet reflected to herself that the prosperity of General Services and her own very substantial income was based largely on the stupidity, lack of resourcefulness, and laziness of persons like this silly parasite, as she explained that General Services would see that her party was a smooth, social success while arranging for a portable full-length stereo screen to be installed in her drawing room in order that she might greet her guests and make her explanations while hurrying to her son's side. Miss Cormet would see that a most adept social manager was placed in charge, one whose own position in society was irreproachable and whose connection with General Services was known to no one. With proper handling the disaster could be turned into a social triumph, enhancing Mrs. Johnson's reputation as a clever hostess and as a devoted mother.

      "A sky car will be at your door in twenty minutes," she added, as she cut in the circuit marked TRANSPORTATION, "to take you to the rocket port. One of our young men will be with it to get additional details from you on the way to the port. A compartment for yourself and a berth for your maid will be reserved on the 16:45 rocket for Newark. You may rest easy now. General Services will do your worrying."

      "Oh, thank you, my dear. You've been such a help. You've no idea of the _responsibilities_ a person in my position has.'

      Miss Cormet cluck-clucked in professional sympathy while deciding that this particular girl was good for still more fees. "You _do_ look exhausted, madame," she said anxiously. "Should I not have a masseuse accompany you on the trip? Is your health at all delicate? Perhaps a physician would be still better."

      "How thoughtful you are!"

      "I'll send both," Miss Cormet decided, and switched off, with a faint regret that she had not suggested a specially chartered rocket. Special service, not listed in the master price schedule, was supplied on a cost-plus basis. In cases like this "plus" meant all the traffic would bear.

      She switched to EXECUTIVE; an alert-eyed young man filled the screen. "Stand by for transcript, Steve," she said. "Special service, triple-A. I've started the immediate service."

      His eyebrows lifted. "Triple-A -- bonuses?"

      "Undoubtedly. Give this old battleaxe the works -- smoothly. And look -- the client's son is laid up in a hospital. Check on his nurses. If any one of them has even a shred of sex-appeal, fire her out and put a zombie in."

      "Gotcha, kid. Start the transcript."

      She cleared her screen again; the "available-for-service" light in her booth turned automatically to green, then almost at once turned red again and a new figure built up in her screen.

      No stupid waster this. Grace Cormet saw a well-kempt man in his middle forties, flat-waisted, shrewd-eyed, hard but urbane. The cape of his formal morning clothes was thrown back with careful casualness. "General Services," she said. "Miss Cormet speaking."

      "Ah, Miss Cormet," he began, "I wish to see your chief."

      "Chief of switchboard?"

      "No, I wish to see the President of General Services."

      "Will you tell me what it is you wish? Perhaps I can help you."

      "Sorry, but I can't make explanations. I must see him, at once."

      "And General Services is sorry. Mr. Clare is a very busy man; it is impossible to see him without appointment and without explanation."

      "Are you recording?"

      "Certainly."

      "Then please cease doing so."

      Above the console, in sight of the client, she switched off the recorder. Underneath the desk she switched it back on again. General Services was sometimes asked to perform illegal acts; its confidential employees took no chances. He fished something out from the folds of his chemise and held it out to her. The stereo effect made it appear as if he were reaching right out through the screen.

      Trained features masked her surprise -- it was the sigil of a planetary official, and the color of the badge was green.

      "I will arrange it," she said.

      "Very good. Can you meet me and conduct me in from the waiting room? In ten minutes?"

      "I will be there, Mister . . . Mister--" But he had cut off.

      Grace Cormet switched to the switchboard chief and called for relief. Then, with her board cut out of service, she removed the spool bearing the clandestine record of the interview, stared at it as if undecided, and after a moment, dipped it into an opening in the top of the desk where a strong magnetic field wiped the unfixed patterns from the soft metal.

      A girl entered the booth from the rear. She was blond, decorative, and looked slow and a little dull. She was neither. "Okay, Grace," she said. "Anything to turn over?"

      "No. Clear board."

      "'S matter? Sick?"

      "No." With no further explanation Grace left the booth, went on out past the other booths housing operators who handled unlisted services and into the large hail where the hundreds of catalogue operators worked. These had no such complex equipment as the booth which Grace had quitted. One enormous volume, a copy of the current price list of all of General Services' regular price-marked functions, and an ordinary look-and-listen enabled a catalogue operator to provide for the public almost anything the ordinary customer could wish for. If a call was beyond the scope of the catalogue it was transferred to the aristocrats of resourcefulness, such as Grace.

      She took a short cut through the master files room, walked down an alleyway between dozens of chattering punched-card machines, and entered the foyer of that level. A pneumatic lift bounced her up to the level of the President's office. The President's receptionist did not stop her, nor, apparently, announce her. But Grace noted that the girl's hands were busy at the keys of her voder.

      Switchboard operators do not walk into the offices of the president of a billion-credit corporation. But General Services was not organized like any other business on the planet. It was a _sui generis_ business in which special training was a commodity to be listed, bought, and sold, but general resourcefulness and a ready wit were all important. In its hierarchy Jay Clare, the president, came first, his handyman, Saunders Francis, stood second, and the couple of dozen operators, of which Grace was one, who took calls on the unlimited switchboard came immediately after. They, and the field operators who handled the most difficult unclassified commissions -- one group in fact, for the unlimited switchboard operators and the unlimited field operators swapped places indiscriminately.

      After them came the tens of thousands of other employees spread over the planet, from the chief accountant, the head of the legal department, the chief clerk of the master files on down through the local managers. the catalogue operators to the last classified part time employee -- stenographers prepared to take dictation when and where ordered, gigolos ready to fill an empty place at a dinner, the man who rented both armadillos and trained fleas.

      Grace Cormet walked into Mr. Clare's office. It was the only room in the building not cluttered up with electromechanical recording and communicating equipment. It contained nothing but his desk (bare), a couple of chairs, and a stereo screen, which, when not in use, seemed to be Krantz' famous painting "The Weeping Buddha". The original was in fact in the sub-basement, a thousand feet below.

      "Hello, Grace," he greeted her, and shoved a piece of paper at her. "Tell me what you think of that. Sance says it's lousy." Saunders Francis turned his mild pop eyes from his chief to Grace Cormet, but neither confirmed nor denied the statement.

      Miss Cormet read:

                  CAN YOU AFFORD IT?

                Can You Afford GENERAL SERVICES?

            Can You Afford NOT to have General Services ? ? ? ? ?

          In this jet-speed age can you afford to go on wasting

          time doing your own shopping, paying bills yourself,

          taking care of your living compartment?

            We'll spank the baby and feed the cat.

            We'll rent you a house and buy your shoes.

          We'll write to your mother-in-law and add up your check stubs.

                No job too large; No job too small --

                and all amazingly Cheap!

                  GENERAL SERVICES

                  Dial H-U-R-R-Y -- U-P

                  P.S. WE ALSO WALK DOGS

      "Well?" said Clare.

      "Sance is right. It smells."

      "Why?"

      "Too logical. Too verbose. No drive."

      "What's your idea of an ad to catch the marginal market?"

      She thought a moment, then borrowed his stylus and wrote:

            DO YOU WANT SOMEBODY MURDERED?

            (Then _don't_ call GENERAL SERVICES)

            But for _any_ other job dial HURRY-UP - _It pays_!

            P.S. We also walk dogs.

      "Mmmm . . . well, maybe," Mr. Clare said cautiously. "We'll try it. Sance, give this a type B coverage, two weeks, North America, and let me know how it takes." Francis put it away in his kit, still with no change in his mild expression. "Now as I was saying--"

      "Chief," broke in Grace Cormet. "I made an appointment for you in--"  She glanced at her watchfinger. "--exactly two minutes and forty seconds. Government man."

      "Make him happy and send him away. I'm busy."

      "Green Badge."

      He looked up sharply. Even Francis looked interested. "So?" Clare remarked. "Got the interview transcript with you?"

      "I wiped it."

      "You did? Well, perhaps you know best. I like your hunches. Bring him in."

      She nodded thoughtfully and left.

      She found her man just entering the public reception room and escorted him past half a dozen gates whose guardians would otherwise have demanded his identity and the nature of his business. When he was seated in Clare's office, he looked around. "May I speak with you in private, Mr. Clare?"

      "Mr. Francis is my right leg. You've already spoken to Miss Cormet."

      "Very well." He produced the green sigil again and held it out. "No names are necessary just yet. I am sure of your discretion."

      The President of General Services sat up impatiently. "Let's get down to business. You are Pierre Beaumont, Chief of Protocol. Does the administration want a job done?"

      Beaumont was unperturbed by the change in pace. "You know me. Very well. We'll get down to business. The government may want a job done. In any case our discussion must not be permitted to leak out--"

      "All of General Services relations are confidential."

      "This is not confidential; this is secret." He paused.

      "I understand you," agreed Clare. "Go on."

      "You have an interesting organization here, Mr. Clare. I believe it is your boast that you will undertake any commission whatsoever -- for a price."

      "If it is legal."

      "Ah, yes, of course. But legal is a word capable of interpretation. I admired the way your company handled the outfitting of the Second Plutonian Expedition. Some of your methods were, ah, ingenious."

      "If you have any criticism of our actions in that case they are best made to our legal department through the usual channels."

      Beaumont pushed a palm in his direction. "Oh, no, Mr. Clare -- please! You misunderstand me. I was not criticising; I was admiring. Such resource! What a diplomat you would have made!"

      "Let's quit fencing. What do you want?"

      Mr. Beaumont pursed his lips. "Let us suppose that you had to entertain a dozen representatives of each intelligent race in this planetary system and you wanted to make each one of them completely comfortable and happy. Could you do it?"

      Clare thought aloud. "Air pressure, humidity, radiation densities, atmosphere, chemistry, temperatures, cultural conditions -- those things are all simple. But how about acceleration? We could use a centrifuge for the Jovians, but Martians and Titans -- that's another matter. There is no way to reduce earth-normal gravity. No, you would have to entertain them out in space, or on Luna. That makes it not our pigeon; we never give service beyond the stratosphere."

      Beaumont shook his head. "It won't be beyond the stratosphere. You may take it as an absolute condition that you are to accomplish your results on the surface of the Earth."

      "Why?"

      "Is it the custom of General Services to inquire why a client wants a particular type of service?"

      "No. Sorry."

      "Quite all right. But you do need more information in order to understand what must be accomplished and why it must be secret. There will be a conference, held on this planet, in the near future -- ninety days at the outside. Until the conference is called no suspicion that it is to be held must be allowed to leak out. If the plans for it were to be anticipated in certain quarters, it would be useless to hold the conference at all. I suggest that you think of this conference as a roundtable of leading, ah, scientists of the system, about of the same size and makeup as the session of the Academy held on Mars last spring. You are to make all preparations for the entertainments of the delegates, but you are to conceal these preparations in the ramifications of your organization until needed. As for the details--"

      But Clare interrupted him. "You appear to have assumed that we will take on this commission. As you have explained it, it would involve us in a ridiculous failure. General Services does not like failures. You know and I know that low-gravity people cannot spend more than a few hours in high gravity without seriously endangering their health. Interplanetary get-togethers are always held on a low-gravity planet and always will be."

      "Yes," answered Beaumont patiently, "they always have been. Do you realize the tremendous diplomatic handicap which Earth and Venus labor under in consequence?"

      "I don't get it."

      "It isn't necessary that you should. Political psychology is not your concern. Take it for granted that it does and that the Administration is determined that this conference shall take place on Earth."

      "Why not Luna?"

      Beaumont shook his head. "Not the same thing at all. Even though we administer it, Luna City is a treaty port. Not the same thing, psychologically."

      Clare shook his head. "Mr. Beaumont, I don't believe that you understand the nature of General Services, even as I fail to appreciate the subtle requirements of diplomacy. We don't work miracles and we don't promise to. We are just the handy-man of the last century, gone speed-lined and corporate. We are the latter day equivalent of the old servant class, but we are not Aladdin's genie. We don't even maintain research laboratories in the scientific sense. We simply make the best possible use of modern advances in communications and organization to do what already can be done." He waved a hand at the far wall, on which there was cut in intaglio the time-honored trademark of the business -- a Scottie dog, pulling against a leash and sniffing at a post. "_There_ is the spirit of the sort of work we do. We walk dogs for people who are too busy to walk 'em themselves. My grandfather worked his way through college walking dogs. I'm still walking them. I don't promise miracles, nor monkey with politics."

      Beaumont fitted his fingertips carefully together. "You walk dogs for a fee. But of course you do -- you walk my pair. Five minim-credits seems rather cheap."

      "It is. But a hundred thousand dogs, twice a day, soon runs up the gross take."

      "The 'take' for walking this 'dog' would be considerable."

      "How much?" asked Francis. It was his first sign of interest. Beaumont turned his eyes on him. "My dear sir, the outcome of this, ah, roundtable should make a difference of literally hundreds of billions of credits to this planet. We will not bind the mouth of the kine that treads the corn, if you pardon the figure of speech."

      "How much?"

      "Would thirty percent over cost be reasonable?"

      Francis shook his head. "Might not come to much."

      "Well, I certainly won't haggle. Suppose we leave it up to you gentlemen -- your pardon, Miss Cormet! -- to decide what the service is worth. I think I can rely on your planetary and racial patriotism to make it reasonable and proper."

      Francis sat back, said nothing, but looked pleased.

      "Wait a minute," protested Clare. "We haven't taken this job."

      "We have discussed the fee," observed Beaumont.

      Clare looked from Francis to Grace Cormet, then examined his fingernails. "Give me twenty-four hours to find out whether or not it is possible," he said finally, "and I'll tell you whether or not we will walk your dog."

      "I feel sure," answered Beaumont, "that you will." He gathered his cape about him.

      "Okay, masterminds," said Clare bitterly, "you've bought it."

      "I've been wanting to get back to field work," said Grace.

      "Put a crew on everything but the gravity problem," suggested Francis. "It's the only catch. The rest is routine."

      "Certainly," agreed Clare, "but you had better deliver on that. If you can't, we are out some mighty expensive preparations that we will never be paid for. Who do you want? Grace?"

      "I suppose so," answered Francis. "She can count up to ten."

      Grace Cormet looked at him coldly. "There are times, Sance Francis, when I regret having married you."

      "Keep your domestic affairs out of the office," warned Clare. "Where do you start?"

      "Let's find out who knows most about gravitation," decided Francis. "Grace, better get Doctor Krathwohl on the screen."

      "Right," she acknowledged, as she stepped to the stereo controls. "That's the beauty about this business. You don't have to know anything; you just have to know where to find out."

      Dr. Krathwohl was a part of the permanent staff of General Services. He had no assigned duties. The company found it worthwhile to support him in comfort while providing him with an unlimited drawing account for scientific journals and for attendance at the meetings which the learned hold from time to time. Dr Krathwohl lacked the single-minded drive of the research scientist; he was a dilettante by nature.

      Occasionally they asked him a question. It paid.

      "Oh, hello, my dear!" Doctor Krathwohl's gentle face smiled out at her from the screen. "Look -- I've just come across the most amusing fact in the latest issue of _Nature_. It throws a most interesting sidelight on Brownlee's theory of--"

      "Just a second, Doc," she interrupted. "I'm kinda in a hurry."

      "Yes, my dear?"

      "Who knows the most about gravitation?"

      "In what way do you mean that? Do you want an astrophysicist, or do you want to deal with the subject from a standpoint of theoretical mechanics? Farquarson would be the man in the first instance, I suppose."

      "I want to know what makes it tick."

      "Field theory, eh? In that case you don't want Farquarson. He is a descriptive ballistician, primarily. Dr. Julian's work in that subject is authoritative, possibly definitive."

      "Where can we get hold of him?"

      "Oh, but you can't. He died last year, poor fellow. A great loss."

      Grace refrained from telling him how great a loss and asked, "Who stepped into his shoes?"

      "Who what? Oh, you were jesting! I see. You want the name of the present top man in field theory. I would say O'Neil."

      "Where is he?"

      "I'll have to find out. I know him slightly -- a difficult man."

      "Do, please. In the meantime who could coach us a bit on what it's all about?"

      "Why don't you try young Carson, in our engineering department? He was interested in such things before he took a job with us. Intelligent chap -- I've had many an interesting talk with him."

      "I'll do that. Thanks, Doc. Call the Chief's office as soon as you have located O'Neil. Speed." She cut off.

      Carson agreed with Krathwohl's opinion, but looked dubious. "O'Neil is arrogant and non-cooperative. I've worked under him. But he undoubtedly knows more about field theory and space structure than any other living man."

      Carson had been taken into the inner circle, the problem explained to him. He had admitted that he saw no solution. "Maybe we are making something hard out of this," Clare suggested. "I've got some ideas. Check me if I'm wrong, Carson."

      "Go ahead, Chief."

      "Well, the acceleration of gravity is produced by the proximity of a mass -- right? Earth-normal gravity being produced by the proximity of the Earth. Well, what would be the effect of placing a large mass just over a particular point on the Earth's surface. Would not that serve to counteract the pull of the Earth?"

      "Theoretically, yes. But it would have to be a damn big mass."

      "No matter."

      "You don't understand, Chief. To offset fully the pull of the Earth at a given point would require another planet the size of the Earth in contact with the Earth at that point. Of course since you don't want to cancel the pull completely, but simply to reduce it, you gain a certain advantage through using a smaller mass which would have its center of gravity closer to the point in question than would be the center of gravity of the Earth. Not enough, though. While the attraction builds up inversely as the square of the distance -- in this case the half-diameter -- the mass and the consequent attraction drops off directly as the cube of the diameter."

      "What does that give us?"

      Carson produced a slide rule and figured for a few moments. He looked up. "I'm almost afraid to answer. You would need a good-sized asteroid, of lead, to get anywhere at all."

      "Asteroids have been moved before this."

      "Yes, but what is to hold it up? No, Chief, there is no conceivable source of power, or means of applying it, that would enable you to hang a big planetoid over a particular spot on the Earth's surface and keep it there."

      "Well, it was a good idea while it lasted," Clare said pensively. Grace's smooth brow had been wrinkled as she followed the discussion. Now she put in, "I gathered that you could use an extremely heavy small mass more effectively. I seem to have read somewhere about some stuff that weighs tons per cubic inch."

      "The core of dwarf stars," agreed Carson. "All we would need for that would be a ship capable of going light-years in a few days, some way to mine the interior of a star, and a new space-time theory."

      "Oh, well, skip it."

      "Wait a minute," Francis observed. "Magnetism is a lot like gravity, isn't it?"

      "Well -- yes."

      "Could there be some way to maqnetize these gazebos from the little planets? Maybe something odd about their body chemistry?"

      "Nice idea," agreed Carson, "but while their internal economy is odd, it's not that odd. They are still organic."

      "I suppose not. If pigs had wings they'd be pigeons."

      The stereo annunciator blinked. Doctor Krathwohl announced that O'Neil could be found at his summer home in Portage, Wisconsin. He had not screened him and would prefer not to do so, unless the Chief insisted.

      Clare thanked him and turned back to the others. "We are wasting time," he announced. "After years in this business we should know better than to try to decide technical questions. I'm not a physicist and I don't give a damn how gravitation works. That's O'Neil's business. And Carson's. Carson, shoot up to Wisconsin and get O'Neil on the job."

      "Me?"

      "You. You're an operator for this job -- with pay to match. Bounce over to the port -- there will be a rocket and a credit facsimile waiting for you. You ought to be able to raise ground in seven or eight minutes."

      Carson blinked. "How about my job here?"

      "The engineering department will be told, likewise the accounting. Get going."

      Without replying Carson headed for the door. By the time he reached it he was hurrying.

      Carson's departure left them with nothing to do until he reported back -- nothing to do, that is, but to start action on the manifold details of reproducing the physical and cultural details of three other planets and four major satellites, exclusive of their characteristic surface-normal gravitational accelerations. The assignment, although new, presented no real difficulties -- to General Services. Somewhere there were persons who knew all the answers to these matters. The vast loose organization called General Services was geared to find them, hire them, put them to work. Any of the unlimited operators and a considerable percent of the catalogue operators could take such an assignment and handle it without excitement nor hurry.

      Francis called in one unlimited operator. He did not even bother to select him, but took the first available on the ready panel -- they were all "Can do!" people. He explained in detail the assignment, then promptly forgot about it. It would be done, and on time. The punched-card machines would chatter a bit louder, stereo screens would flash, and bright young people in all parts of the Earth would drop what they were doing and dig out the specialists who would do the actual work.

      He turned back to Clare, who said, "I wish I knew what Beaumont is up to. Conference of scientists -- phooey!"

      "I thought you weren't interested in politics, Jay."

      "I'm not. I don't give a hoot in hell about politics, interplanetary or otherwise, except as it affects this business. But if I knew what was being planned, we might be able to squeeze a bigger cut out of it."

      "Well," put in Grace, "I think you can take it for granted that the real heavy-weights from all the planets are about to meet and divide Gaul into three parts."

      "Yes, but who gets cut out?"

      "Mars, I suppose."

      "Seems likely. With a bone tossed to the Venerians. In that case we might speculate a little in Pan-Jovian Trading Corp."

      "Easy, son, easy," Francis warned. "Do that, and you might get people interested. This is a hush-hush job."

      "I guess you're right. Still, keep your eyes open. There ought to be some way to cut a slice of pie before this is over."

      Grace Cormet's telephone buzzed. She took it out of her pocket and said, "Yes?"

      "A Mrs. Hogbein Johnson wants to speak to you."

      "You handle her. I'm off the board."

      "She won't talk to anyone but you."

      "All right. Put her on the Chief's stereo, but stay in parallel yourself. You'll handle it after I've talked to her."

      The screen came to life, showing Mrs. Johnson's fleshy face alone, framed in the middle of the screen in flat picture. "Oh, Miss Cormet," she moaned, "some dreadful mistake has been made. There is no stereo on this ship."

      "It will be installed in Cincinnati. That will be in about twenty minutes."

      "You are sure?"

      "Quite sure."

      "Oh, thank you! It's such a relief to talk with you. Do you know, I'm thinking of making you my social secretary."

      "Thank you,' Grace said evenly; `but I am under contract."

      "But how stupidly tiresome! You can break it."

      "No, I'm sorry Mrs. Johnson. Good-bye." She switched off the screen and spoke again into her telephone. "Tell Accounting to double her fee. And I won't speak with her again." She cut off and shoved the little instrument savagely back into her pocket. "Social secretary!"

      It was after dinner and Clare had retired to his living apartment before Carson called back. Francis took the call in his own office.

      "Any luck?" he asked, when Carson's image had built up.

      "Quite a bit. I've seen O'Neil."

      "Well? Will he do it?"

      "You mean can he do it, don't you?"

      "Well -- can he?"

      "Now that is a funny thing -- I didn't think it was theoretically possible. But after talking with him, I'm convinced that it is. O'Neil has a new outlook on field theory -- stuff he's never published. The man is a genius."

      "I don't care," said Francis, "whether he's a genius or a Mongolian idiot -- can he build some sort of a gravity thinner-outer?"

      "I believe he can. I really do believe he can."

      "Fine. You hired him?"

      "No. That's the hitch. That's why I called back. It's like this: I happened to catch him in a mellow mood, and because we had worked together once before and because I had not aroused his ire quite as frequently as his other assistants he invited me to stay for dinner. We talked about a lot of things (you can't hurry him) and I broached the proposition. It interested him mildly -- the idea, I mean; not the proposition -- and he discussed the theory with me, or, rather, at me. But he won't work on it."

      "Why not? You didn't offer him enough money. I guess I'd better tackle him."

      "No, Mr. Francis, no. You don't understand. He's not interested in money. He's independently wealthy and has more than he needs for his research, or anything else he wants. But just at present he is busy on wave mechanics theory and he just won't be bothered with anything else."

      "Did you make him realize it was important?"

      "Yes and no. Mostly no. I tried to, but there isn't anything important to him but what he wants. It's a sort of intellectual snobbishness. Other people simply don't count."

      "All right," said Francis. "You've done well so far. Here's what you do: After I switch off, you call EXECUTIVE and make a transcript of everything you can remember of what he said about gravitational theory. We'll hire the next best men, feed it to them, and see if it gives them any ideas to work on. In the meantime I'll put a crew to work on the details of Dr O'Neil's background. He'll have a weak point somewhere; it's just a matter of finding it. Maybe he's keeping a woman somewhere--"

      "He's long past that."

      "--or maybe he has a by-blow stashed away somewhere. We'll see. I want you to stay there in Portage. Since you can't hire him, maybe you can persuade him to hire you. You're our pipeline, I want it kept open. We've got to find something he wants, or something he is afraid of."

      "He's not afraid of _anything_. I'm positive about that."

      "Then he wants something. If it's not money, or women, it's something else. It's a law of nature."

      "I doubt it," Carson replied slowly. "Say! Did I tell you about his hobby?"

      "No. What is it?"

      "It's china. In particular, Ming china. He has the best collection in the world, I'd guess. But I know what he wants!"

      "Well, spill it, man, spill it. Don't be dramatic."

      "It's a little china dish, or bowl, about four inches across and two inches high. It's got a Chinese name that means 'Flower of Forgetfulness.'"

      "Hmmm -- doesn't seem significant. You think he wants it pretty bad?"

      "I know he does. He has a solid colorgraph of it in his study, where he can look at it. But it hurts him to talk about it."

      "Find out who owns it and where it is."

      "I know. British Museum. That's why he can't buy it."

      "So?" mused Francis. "Well, you can forget it. Carry on."

      Clare came down to Francis' office and the three talked it over. "I guess we'll need Beaumont on this," was his comment when he had heard the report. "It will take the Government to get anything loose from the British Museum." Francis looked morose. "Well -- what's eating you? What's wrong with that?"

      "I know," offered Grace. "You remember the treaty under which Great Britain entered the planetary confederation?"

      "I was never much good at history."

      "It comes to this: I doubt if the planetary government can touch anything that belongs to the Museum without asking the British Parliament."

      "Why not? Treaty or no treaty, the planetary government is sovereign. That was established in the Brazilian Incident."

      "Yeah, sure. But it could cause questions to be asked in the House of Commons and that would lead to the one thing Beaumont wants to avoid at all costs -- publicity."

      "Okay. What do you propose?"

      "I'd say that Sance and I had better slide over to England and find out just how tight they have the 'Flower of Forgetfulness' nailed down -- and who does the nailing and what his weaknesses are."

      Clare's eyes travelled past her to Francis, who was looking blank in the fashion that indicated assent to his intimates. "Okay," agreed Clare, "it's your baby. Taking a special?"

      "No, we've got time to get the midnight out of New York. Bye-bye."

      "Bye. Call me tomorrow."

      When Grace screened the Chief the next day he took one look at her and exclaimed, "Good Grief, kid! What have you done to your hair?"

      "We located the guy," she explained succinctly. "His weakness is blondes."

      "You've had your skin bleached, too."

      "Of course. How do you like it?"

      "It's stupendous -- though I preferred you the way you were. But what does Sance think of it?"

      "He doesn't mind -- it's business. But to get down to cases, Chief, there isn't much to report. This will have to be a lefthanded job. In the ordinary way, it would take an earthquake to get anything out of that tomb."

      "Don't do anything that can't be fixed!"

      "You know me, Chief. I won't get you in trouble. But it will be expensive."

      "Of course."

      "That's all for now. I'll screen tomorrow."

      She was a brunette again the next day. "What is this?" asked Clare. "A masquerade?"

      "I wasn't the blonde he was weak for," she explained, "but I found the one he was interested in."

      "Did it work out?"

      "I think it will. Sance is having a facsimile integrated now. With luck, we'll see you tomorrow."

      They showed up the next day, apparently empty handed. "Well?" said Clare, "well?"

      "Seal the place up, Jay," suggested Francis. "Then we'll talk." Clare flipped a switch controlling an interference shield which rendered his office somewhat more private than a coffin. "How about it?" he demanded. "Did you get it?"

      "Show it to him, Grace."

      Grace turned her back, fumbled at her clothing for a moment, then turned around and placed it gently on the Chief's desk.

      It was not that it was beautiful -- it was beauty. Its subtle simple curve had no ornamentation, decoration would have sullied it. One spoke softly in its presence, for fear a sudden noise would shatter it.

      Clare reached out to touch it, then thought better of it and drew his hand back. But he bent his head over it and stared down into it. It was strangely hard to focus -- to allocate -- the bottom of the bowl. It seemed as if his sight sank deeper and ever deeper into it, as if he were drowning in a pool of light.

      He jerked up his head and blinked. "God," he whispered, "God -- I didn't know such things existed."

      He looked at Grace and looked away to Francis. Francis had tears in his eyes, or perhaps his own were blurred.

      "Look, Chief," said Francis. "Look -- couldn't we just keep it and call the whole thing off?"

      "There's no use talking about it any longer," said Francis wearily. "We can't keep it, Chief. I shouldn't have suggested it and you shouldn't have listened to me. Let's screen O'Neil."

      "We might just wait another day before we do anything about it," Clare ventured. His eyes returned yet again to the "Flower of Forgetfulness."

      Grace shook her head. "No good. It will just be harder tomorrow. I _know_." She walked decisively over to the stereo and manipulated the controls.

      O'Neil was annoyed at being disturbed and twice annoyed that they had used the emergency signal to call him to his disconnected screen.

      "What is this?" he demanded. "What do you mean by disturbing a private citizen when he has disconnected? Speak up and it had better be good, or, so help me, I'll sue you!"

      "We want you to do a little job of work for us, Doctor," Clare began evenly.

      "What!" O'Neil seemed almost too surprised to be angry. "Do you mean to stand there, sir, and tell me that you have invaded the privacy of my home to ask me to work for you?"

      "The pay will be satisfactory to you."

      O'Neil seemed to be counting up to ten before answering. "Sir," he said carefully, "there are men in the world who seem to think they can buy anything, or anybody. I grant you that they have much to go on in that belief. But I am not for sale. Since you seem to be one of those persons, I will do my best to make this interview expensive for you. You will hear from my attorneys. Good night!"

      "Wait a moment," Clare said urgently. "I believe that you are interested in china--"

      "What if I am?"

      "Show it to him, Grace." Grace brought the "Flower of Forgetfulness" up near the screen, handling it carefully, reverently. O'Neil said nothing. He leaned forward and stared. He seemed to be about to climb through the screen. "Where did you get it?" he said at last.

      "That doesn't matter."

      "I'll buy it from you - at your own price."

      "It's not for sale. But you may have it -- if we can reach an agreement."

      O'Neil eyed him. "It's stolen property."

      "You're mistaken. Nor will you find anyone to take an interest in such a charge. Now about this job--"

      O'Neil pulled his eyes away from the bowl. "What is it you wish me to do?"

      Clare explained the problem to him. When he had concluded O'Neil shook his head. "That's ridiculous," he said.

      "We have reason to feel that is theoretically possible."

      "Oh, certainly! It's theoretically possible to live forever, too. But no one has ever managed it."

      "We think you can do it."

      "Thank you for nothing. Say!" O'Neil stabbed a finger at him out of the screen. "You set that young pup Carson on me!"

      "He was acting under my orders."

      "Then, sir, I do not like your manners."

      "How about the job? And this?" Clare indicated the bowl. O'Neil gazed at it and chewed his whiskers. "Suppose," he said, at last, "I make an honest attempt, to the full extent of my ability, to supply what you want -- and I fail."

      Clare shook his head. "We pay only for results. Oh, your salary, of course, but not _this_. This is a bonus in addition to your salary, _if_ you are successful."

      O'Neil seemed about to agree, then said suddenly, "You may be fooling me with a colorgraph. I can't tell through this damned screen."

      Clare shrugged. "Come and see for yourself."

      "I shall. I will. Stay where you are. Where are you? Damn it, sir, what's your name?"

      He came storming in two hours later. "You've tricked me! The 'Flower' is still in England. I've investigated. I'll . . . I'll punish you, sir, with my own two hands."

      "See for yourself," answered Clare. He stepped aside, so that his body no longer obscured O'Neil's view of Clare's desk top.

      They let him look. They respected his need for quiet and let him look. After a long time he turned to them, but did not speak.

      "Well?" asked Clare.

      "I'll build your damned gadget," he said huskily. "I figured out an approach on the way here."

      Beaumont came in person to call the day before the first session of the conference. "Just a social call, Mr. Clare," he stated. "I simply wanted to express to you my personal appreciation for the work you have done. And to deliver this." "This" turned out to be a draft on the Bank Central for the agreed fee. Clare accepted it, glanced at it, nodded, and placed it on his desk.

      "I take it, then," he remarked, "that the Government is satisfied with the service rendered."

      "That is putting it conservatively," Beaumont assured him. "To be perfectly truthful, I did not think you could do so much. You seem to have thought of everything. The Callistan delegation is out now, riding around and seeing the sights in one of the little tanks you had prepared. They are delighted. Confidentially, I think we can depend on their vote in the coming sessions."

      "Gravity shields working all right, eh?"

      "Perfectly. I stepped into their sightseeing tank before we turned it over to them. I was as light as the proverbial feather. Too light -- I was very nearly spacesick." He smiled in wry amusement. "I entered the Jovian apartments, too. That was quite another matter."

      "Yes, it would be," Clare agreed. "Two and a half times normal weight is oppressive to say the least."

      "It's a happy ending to a difficult task. I must be going. Oh, yes, one other little matter -- I've discussed with Doctor O'Neil the possibility that the Administration may be interested in other uses for his new development. In order to simplify the matter it seems desirable that you provide me with a quit-claim to the O'Neil effect from General Services."

      Clare gazed thoughtfully at the "Weeping Buddha" and chewed his thumb. "No," he said slowly, "no. I'm afraid that would be difficult."

      "Why not?" asked Beaumont. "It avoids the necessity of adjudication and attendant waste of time. We are prepared to recognize your service and recompense you."

      "Hmmm. I don't believe you fully understand the situation, Mr. Beaumont. There is a certain amount of open territory between our contract with Doctor O'Neil and your contract with us. You asked of us certain services and certain chattels with which to achieve that service. We provided them -- for a fee. All done. But our contract with Doctor O'Neil made him a full-time employee for the period of his employment. His research results and the patents embodying them are the property of General Services."

      "Really?" said Beaumont. "Doctor O'Neil has a different impression."

      "Doctor O'Neil is mistaken. Seriously, Mr. Beaumont -- you asked us to develop a siege gun, figuratively speaking, to shoot a gnat. Did you expect us, as businessmen, to throw away the siege gun after one shot?"

      "No, I suppose not. What do you propose to do?"

      "We expect to exploit the gravity modulator commercially. I fancy we could get quite a good price for certain adaptations of it on Mars."

      "Yes. Yes, I suppose you could. But to be brutally frank, Mr. Clare, I am afraid that is impossible. it is a matter of imperative public policy that this development be limited to terrestrials. In fact, the administration would find it necessary to intervene and make it government monopoly."

      "Have you considered how to keep O'Neil quiet?"

      "In view of the change in circumstances, no. What is your thought?"

      "A corporation, in which he would hold a block of stock and be president. One of our bright young men would be chairman of the board." Clare thought of Carson. "There would be stock enough to go around," he added, and watched Beaumont's face.

      Beaumont ignored the bait. "I suppose that this corporation would be under contract to the Government -- its sole customer?"

      "That is the idea."

      "Hmmm . . . yes, it seems feasible. Perhaps I had better speak with Doctor O'Neil."

      "Help yourself."

      Beaumont got O'Neil on the screen and talked with him in low tones. Or, more properly, Beaumont's tones were low. O'Neil displayed a tendency to blast the microphone. Clare sent for Francis and Grace and explained to them what had taken place.

      Beaumont turned away from the screen. "The Doctor wishes to speak with you, Mr. Clare."

      O'Neil looked at him frigidly. "What is this claptrap I've had to listen to, sir? What's this about the O'Neil effect being your property?"

      "It was in your contract, Doctor. Don't you recall?"

      "Contract! I never read the damned thing. But I can tell you this: I'll take you to court. I'll tie you in knots before I'll let you make a fool of me that way."

      "Just a moment, Doctor, please!" Clare soothed. "We have no desire to take advantage of a mere legal technicality, and no one disputes your interest. Let me outline what I had in mind--" He ran rapidly over the plan. O'Neil listened, but his expression was still unmollified at the conclusion.

      "I'm not interested," he said gruffly. "So far as I am concerned the Government can have the whole thing. And I'll see to it."

      "I had not mentioned one other condition," added Clare.

      "Don't bother."

      "I must. This will be just a matter of agreement between gentlemen, but it is essential. You have custody of the 'Flower of Forgetfulness.'"

      O'Neil was at once on guard. "What do you mean, 'custody.' I own it. Understand me -- own it."

      "'Own it,'" repeated Clare. "Nevertheless, in return for the concessions we are making you with respect to your contract, we want something in return."

      "What?" asked O'Neil. The mention of the bowl had upset his confidence.

      "You own it and you retain possession of it. But I want your word that I, or Mr. Francis, or Miss Cormet, may come look at it from time to time -- frequently."

      O'Neil looked unbelieving. "You mean that you simply want to come to _look_ at it?"

      "That's all."

      "Simply to _enjoy_ it?"

      "That's right."

      O'Neil looked at him with new respect. "I did not understand you before, Mr Clare. I apologize. As for the corporation nonsense -- do as you like. I don't care. You and Mr Francis and Miss Cormet may come to see the 'Flower' whenever you like. You have my word."

      "Thank you, Doctor O'Neil -- for all of us." He switched off as quickly as could be managed gracefully.

      Beaumont was looking at Clare with added respect, too. "I think," he said, "that the next time I shall not interfere with your handling of the details. I'll take my leave. Adieu, gentlemen - and Miss Cormet."

      When the door had rolled down behind him Grace remarked, "That seems to polish it off."

      "Yes," said Clare. "We've 'walked his dog' for him; O'Neil has what he wants; Beaumont got what he wanted, and more besides."

      "Just what is he after?"

      "I don't know, but I suspect that he would like to be first president of the Solar System Federation, if and when there is such a thing. With the aces we have dumped in his lap, he might make it. Do you realize the potentialities of the O'Neil effect?"

      "Vaguely," said Francis.

      "Have you thought about what it will do to space navigation? Or the possibilities it adds in the way of colonization? Or its recreational uses? There's a fortune in that alone."

      "What do we get out of it?"

      "What do we get out of it? Money, old son. Gobs and gobs of money. There's always money in giving people what they want." He glanced up at the Scottie dog trademark.

      "Money," repeated Francis. "Yeah, I suppose so."

      "Anyhow," added Grace, "we can always go look at the 'Flower.'"

Searchlight

'Will she hear you?'

      'If she's on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship. If her suit radio wasn't damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive. Since the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is unlikely that she or the pilot lived through it.'

      'She's got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge.'

      Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. 'Lunar Base, Commanding General.'

      'General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!'

      Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. 'Sir, do you know how big the Moon is?'

      ~No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere - so every man is to search until she is found. If she's dead, your precious pilot would be better off dead, too!'

      'Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man I have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave Betsy my best pilot. I won't listen to threats against him when he can't answer back. Not from anyone, sir! I'm sick of being told what to do by people who don't know Lunar conditions. My advice - my official advice sir is to let Meridian Station try. Maybe they can Work a miracle.'

      The answer rapped back, 'Very well, General! I'll speak to you later. Meridian Station! Report your plans.' Elizabeth Barnes, 'Blind Betsy', child genius of the piano, had been making a USO tour of the Moon. She 'wowed 'em' at Tycho Base, then lifted by jeep rocket for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely missilemen behind the Moon. She should have been there in an hour. Her pilot was a safety pilot; such ships shuttled unpiloted between Tycho and Farside daily.

      After lift-off her ship departed from its programming, was lost by Tycho's radars. It was.. . somewhere.

      Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would be seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed - or made emergency landing - somewhere on the vastness of Luna.

'Meridian Space Station, Director speaking - ' Lag was unnoticeable; radio bounce between Washington and the station only 22,300 miles up was only a quarter second. 'We've patched Earthside stations to blanket the Moon with our call. Another broadcast blankets the far side from Station Newton at the three-body stable position. Ships from Tycho are orbiting the Moon's rim - that band around the edge which is in radio shadow from us and from the Newton. If we hear-'

      'Yes, yes! How about radar search?'

      'Sir, a rocket on the surface looks to radar like a million other features the same size. Our one chance is to get them to answer . . . if they can. Ultrahigh-resolution radar might spot them in months - but suits worn in those little rockets carry only six hours air. We are praying they will hear and answer.'

      'When they answer, you'll slap a radio direction finder on them. Eh?'

      'No, sir.'

      'In God's name, why not?'

      'Sir, a direction finder is useless for this job. It would tell us only that the signal came from the Moon - which doesn't help.'

      'Doctor, you're saying that you might hear Betsy - and not know where she is?'

      'We're as blind as she is. We hope that she will be able to lead us to her. . . if she hears us.'

      'How?'

      'With a Laser. An intense, very tight beam of light. She'll hear it-'

      'Hear a beam of light?'

      'Yes, sir. We are jury-rigging to scan like radar - that won't show anything. But we are modulating it to give a carrier wave in radio frequency, then modulating that into audio frequency-and controlling that by a piano. If she hears us, we'll tell her to listen while we scan the Moon and run the scale on the piano -,

      'All this while a little girl is dying?'

      'Mister President - shut up!'

      'Who was THAT?'

      'I'm Betsy's father. They've patched me from Omaha. Please, Mr President, keep quiet and let them work. I want my daughter back.'

      The President answered tightly, 'Yes, Mr Barnes. Go ahead, Director. Order anything you need.'

In Station Meridian the director wiped his face. 'Getting anything?'

      'No. Boss, can't something be done about that Rio station? It's sitting right on the frequency!'

      'We'll drop a brick on them. Or a bomb. Joe, tell the President'

      'I heard, Director. They'll be silenced!'

'Sh! Quiet! Betsy - do you hear me?' The operator looked intent, made an adjustment.

      From a speaker came a girl's light, sweet voice: ' - to hear somebody! Gee, I'm glad! Better come quick - the Major is hurt.'

      The Director jumped to the microphone. 'Yes, Betsy, we'll hurry. You've got to help us. Do you know where you are?'

      'Somewhere on the Moon, I guess. We bumped hard and I was going to kid him about it when the ship fell over. I got unstrapped and found Major Peters and he isn't moving. Not dead - I don't think so; his suits puffs out like mine and I hear something when I push my helmet against him. I just now managed to get the door open.' She added, 'This can't be Farside; it's supposed to be night there. I'm in sunshine, I'm sure. This suit is pretty hot.'

      'Betsy, you must stay outside. You've got to be where you can see us.'

      She chuckled. 'That's a good one. I see with my ears.'

      Yes. You'll see us, with your ears. Listen, Betsy. We're going to scan the Moon with a beam of light. You'll hear it as a piano note. We've got the Moon split into the eighty-eight piano notes. When you hear one, yell, "Now!" Then tell us what note you heard. Can you do that?'

      'Of course,' she said confidently, 'if the piano is in tune.'

      'It is. All right, we're starting -' 'Now!'

      'What note, Betsy?'

      'E flat, the first octave above middle C.' 'This note, Betsy?'

      'That's what I said.'

      The Director called out, 'Where's that on the grid? In Mare Nubium? Tell the General!' He said to the microphone, 'We're finding you, Betsy honey! Now we scan just that part you're on.

      We change setup. Want to talk to your Daddy meanwhile?'

      'Gosh! Could I?'

      'Yes indeed!'

      Twenty minutes later he cut' in and heard: '- of course not, Daddy. Oh, a teensy bit scared when the ship fell. But people take care of me, always have.'

      'Betsy?'

      'Yes, sir?'

      'Be ready to tell us again.'

'Now!' She added, 'That's a bullfrog G, three octaves down.'

      'This note?'

      'That's right.'

      'Get that on the grid and tell the General to get his ships up! That cuts it to a square ten miles on a side! Now, Betsy - we know almost where you are. We are going to focus still closer. Want to go inside and cool off?'

      'I'm not too hot. Just sweaty.'

Forty minutes later the General's voice rang out: 'They've spotted the ship! They see her waving!'