"And do I?"

"No. You should, but you don't. You've still a potential. Well, if the Drews are coming, I'd better shave."

She was looking at him thoughtfully as he left the room.

Peak outer-thought, "Well, Ha, what do you think of Earthians?"

"They're like us," Ha thought wonderingly, "except for that stuff growing on them."

"Hair," Peak explained. "They haven't our cloud blanket, and their climate is ridiculous. You've—been gone some time."

"Had to case a lot of spots. I guess I've a fine prospect. I'm working on him. Having eyes was—wonderful again. But I had that—that hair on me, too."

"You'll get used to it. Ha, no mix-ups, now. We're all counting on you."

"It's a cinch."

For a certain class of people, Eben Drews would undoubtedly make a fascinating conversationalist. For that class of people who are engrossed in the elimination of aphids or the control of slugs. It was a class that lived without Ted.

Ted kept his eyes on Eben's face and managed a "What do you know about that?" at the proper intervals, but his mind was on the squirrel and the blonde. And the dream. Which was the dream? Here, listening to the Drews monologue or this morning, on Mars?

He had a strange feeling, as the monotone droned on and on, as the background of Ann and Mrs. Drews' voice seemed to swell and dim, that this was the dream.

As they were undressing, in the room between their bedrooms, later that evening, Ann said, "It won't happen again, honey. I see what you mean."

"Don't tell me they bored you, too?"

"A little. And I'm interested in gardening. Ted—" She seemed to be blushing.

"Yes?" In wonder and hope, he gazed at her.

"Ted, I'll try to read—and—widen my interests. I'll be better."

 Prev. P 10/27 next