«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 Luna 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.»

«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.»