kissed her.

"I've caught it, too," I said. "I don't want to live on Venus—but will you set up housekeeping with me someplace less strenuous?"

"Oh, Steve," she whispered in that husky voice that belonged to me as of then, "what else would I rather do?"

She took some more pictures, though, when we finally got to Ul, and I used them. But not the story about Vechi and Laapet. Not until now—now that the Martian diplomat has learned double talk, and his wife pours tea and smiles for the news cameras. They aren't untouchable any more.

Which is the point I like to make, whenever I can. Though Vechi is right—nobody is particularly interested. If anything, they're much more comfortable now that the Martians are—different.

More like us.

And it's our fault.

 Prev. P 26/26