“These people” he muttered, “if they and their damned rooms would only stand still.”

“No hope,” Allen said. He stared out the direct-view window overlooking the river. Beyond, the capital of the United States of the Western Hemisphere could be seen between combs scattered along the Virginia banks of the Potomac . Nothing in Washington DC proper was allowed to stand higher than the Capitol dome — that had been a law for centuries. I longed to walk through the Mall, the parks and ancient neighborhoods, under the trees I saw spreading their canopies like billowing green carpets.

“Still raining,” I said in awe.

“ ‘Sprinkling’ is the term, I believe,” Allen said. “We have to brush up on our weather.”

“ ‘Weather,’ ” I said profoundly, and Allen and I laughed.

Bithras stood and stretched his arms restlessly. “We have seven days before we testify to Congress. We have three days before our meetings with subcommittees and Senate and House members begin. That means two days of preparation and meetings with BM partners, and one day to see the sights. I am too anxious and upset to work today. Alice and I will stay here. You may do what you like.”

Allen and I glanced at each other. “We’ll walk,” I said.

“Right,” Allen said.

Bithras shook his head as if in pity. “Earth wears on me quickly,” he said.

The skies had cleared by the time we cabbed into Washington DC . Allen and I had been rather aloof during our crossing, but now we behaved like brother and sister, sharing the wind, the clean crisp air, the sun on our faces: and then, glory of glory, the cherry trees in full blossom. The trees blossomed once every month, we were told, even in winter; tourists expected that.

“It isn’t natural, you know,” Allen said. “They used to blossom only in the spring.”

“I know,” I said peevishly. “I don’t care.”

“Trees blossom on Mars,” he said chidingly. “Why should we marvel at these?”

“Because there is no tree on all of Mars that sits under an open sky and raises its branches to the sun,” I said.

The sun warmed our bare arms and faces, the wind blew gentle and cool, and the temperature varied from moment to moment; I could not shake the feeling, damn all politics, all vagaries of birth, that I loved Earth, and Earth loved me.

The day was beautiful. I felt beautiful. Allen and I flirted, but not seriously. We drank coffee in a sidewalk cafe, ate an early lunch, walked to the Washington Monument and climbed the long stairs (I ignored shooting pains in my legs), descended, walked more. Strolling the length of the reflecting pool, we paused to look at transform joggers whizzing past like greyhounds.

We studied projected history lessons and climbed the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, then stood before the giant statue of Abraham Lincoln. I studied his sad, weary face and gnarled hands, and unexpectedly I felt my eyes moisten, reading the words which flanked him, inspired by the civil war over which he presided and which ultimately killed him. People eat their leaders, I thought. The king must die.

Allen had a different perspective. “He was forcing allegiance on the American South,” he said. “He’s politically more Terrie than I care for.”

“Mars doesn’t keep slaves,” I reminded him.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’ve always rooted for the underdogs.”

We then retreated along the reflecting pool and watched the sun go down.

“What would Lincoln think of red rabbits?” Allen asked.

“What would Lincoln think of the union now?” I countered.

Despite some maladjustments in my bichemistry — we were definitely overdoing it — I was giddy with the weather, the architecture all out in the open, the history.

We returned to the comb to have dinner with Bithras in the hotel’s main restaurant. The food was even better than it had been aboard Tuamotu. Much of it was fresh, not nano, and I searched for, and thought I found, the difference in flavor. “It tastes like dirt, I think,” I told Bithras and Allen over the white linen tablecloth and silver candlesticks.

“Musty,” Allen agreed. “Not too long since it was alive.”

Bithras coughed. “Enough,” he said.

Allen and I smiled at each other conspiratorially. “We shouldn’t act provincial,” Allen said.

“I’ll act the way I feel,” Bithras said, but he was not angry; simply stating a fact. “The wine is good, though.” He lifted his glass. “To red rabbits out of their element.”

We toasted ourselves.

On the way back to the suite, outside the lift, Bithras looped his arm through mine and pressed me close. Allen saw this and quickly did the same with my other arm. I felt for a moment as if I were being pressed between two overanxious dogs at stud; then I saw what Allen was up to.

Bithras drew his lips into a firm line and let go of my arm. Allen let go immediately after and I gave him a grateful glance.

Bithras behaved as if nothing had happened. And, indeed, nothing had happened. The evening had been too pleasant to believe otherwise.

“I’ve been here for twenty-seven years,” Miriam Jaffrey told us as she invited us into her apartment. “My husband went Eloi ten years ago, and I think, though I do not know for sure, that he is on Mars… So here I am, a Martian on Earth, and he’s a Terrie up there.” Bithras and Allen took seats at her invitation in the broad living room. The windows looked across the sprawl of old Virginia combs and even older skyscrapers. We were on the south side of the Capital Tower Comb, opposite from our hotel.

“I’m always snooping out red rabbits,” she said, sitting beside Bithras. They appeared to be about the same age. “It’s lovely to hear what’s changed and what’s the same. Not that I plan on going back… I’m too used to Earth now. I’m a Terrie, I’m afraid.”

“We’re enjoying ourselves immensely,” Allen said.

Miriam beamed. Her long black hair hung over square thin shoulders revealed by a flowing green cotton dress. “I’m most pleased you could take time out from your busy schedule.”

“Our pleasure,” Bithras said. He squirmed his butt into the couch, fighting the self-adjusting cushions. “Now, are we secure?”

“Very,” Miriam said,“ drawing herself up and suddenly quite serious.

“Good. We need to talk freely. Casseia, Allen: Miriam is not just a social gadfly, she is the best-informed Martian on Earth about things Washingtonian.“

Miriam batted her eyelashes modestly.

“She follows the tradition of a long line of hostesses in this capital, who meet and greet, and know all, and she has been invaluable to Majumdar BM in the past.”

“Thank you, Bithras,” she said.

Bithras produced his slate from a shirt pouch and placed it before her. “We brought a copy of Alice with us. She’s resting in our hotel room now.”

“She’s proof against the latest?” Miriam asked.

“We think she is. We refused an opportunity to let customs sweep her.”

“Good. She’s Terrie-made, of course, so she’s always a little suspect.”

“I trust Alice . She was examined by our finest and found true to her design.”

“All right,” said Miriam, but in a tone that betrayed she still had doubts. “Still, you should know that all thinkers are a little too sweet and innocent to understand Earth, at least those thinkers allowed to be exported — to emigrate.”

“Yes, that is so,” Bithras agreed. “She will only advise, however, not rule.”

I listened to all this in a state of shock. “You’re a spy?” I asked innocently.

“Stars, no!” Miriam laughed and slapped her thigh. She struck a pose, hand on knee, shoulder thrown back, tossing her hair. “Though I could be, don’t you think?”

“We’ll meet later today with representatives from Cailetet and Sandoval,” Bithras said.

“Cailetet’s been very skittish lately,” Miriam said. “Buying up notes and extensions from other BMs, minimizing their exposure in the open Triple Market.”