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 to speak. Are you hungry?»

«Starving.»

«How about dinner at Kean's Chophouse?»

«Wonderful. Oh, Allan, we're back!» Her tears started again. They glimpsed the Simmons' 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?»

«Mamma'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 frowsty little nest and going with me to shop for clothes?»

«Unh-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. But 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 snow storm. 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 salesman 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 Grail's mother.»

«Oh, how do you do, Doctor – or should it be 'Professor'?»