Dua sat up. Her voice was almost normal. “Odeen! Are you making all this up to soothe me?”

Tritt broke in. “No, Dua. I feel it, too. I feel it, too. I don’t know what exactly, but I feel it.”

“He does, Dua,” said Odeen. “You will, too. Aren’t you beginning to recall being a Hard One during our melt? Don’t you want to melt now? One last time? One last time?”

He lifted her. There was a feverishness about her, and though she struggled a bit, she was thinning.

“If what you say is true, Odeen,” she gasped. “If we are to be a Hard One; then it seems to me you are saying we’ll be an important one. Is that so?”

“The most important. The best who was ever formed. I mean that... Tritt, over there. It’s not good-by, Tritt. We’ll be together, as we always wanted to be. Dua, too. You, too, Dua.”

Dua said, “Then we can make Estwald understand the Pump can’t continue. We’ll force—”

The melting was beginning. One by one, the Hard Ones were entering again at the crucial moment. Odeen saw them imperfectly, for he was beginning to melt into Dua.

It was not like the other times; no sharp ecstasy; just a smooth, cool, utterly peaceful movement. He could feel himself become partly Dua, and all the world seemed pouring into his/her sharpening senses. The Positron Pumps were still going—he/she could tell—why were they still going?

He was Tritt, too, and a keen sharp sense of bitter loss filled his/her/his mind. Oh, my babies—

And he cried out, one last cry under the consciousness of Odeen, except that somehow it was the cry of Dua. “No, we can’t stop Estwald. We are Estwald. We—”

The cry that was Dua’s and yet not Dua’s stopped and there was no longer any Dua; nor would there ever be Dua again. Nor Odeen. Nor Tritt.

Estwald stepped forth and said sadly to the waiting Hard Ones, by way of vibrating air waves, “I am permanently with you now, and there is much to do—”

Selene Lindstrom smiled brightly and walked with the light springy touch that was startling when first seen by the tourists, but was soon recognized as having a grace of its own.

“It’s time for lunch,” she said, cheerfully. “All home-grown, ladies and gentlemen. You may not be used to the taste, but it’s all nourishing.... Right here, sir. You won’t mind sitting with the ladies, I know.... One moment. There will be seats for all.... Sorry, there will be a choice on the beverage, but not on the main course. That will be veal. ... No, no. Artificial flavor and texture, but it’s really quite good.”

Then she sat down herself, with a slight sigh and an even slighter wavering of her pleasant expression.

One of the group sat down across from her.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

She looked at him, quickly, penetrating. She had the faculty of making quick judgments, of course, and he did not seem troublesome. She said, “Not at all. But aren’t you with someone in this group?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m alone. Even if that were not the case, Earthies are no great thrill to me.”

She looked at him again. He was fiftyish and there was a weary look about him which only his bright, inquisitive eyes seemed to belie. He had the unmistakable look of the Earthman, laden down with gravity. She said, “ ‘Earthie’ is a Moon-expression, and not a very nice one.”

“I’m from Earth,” he said, “so I can use it without offense, I hope. Unless you object.”

Selene shrugged as though to say: Please yourself.

She had the faintly oriental look about the eyes so many of the Moon-girls had, but her hair was the color of honey and her nose was prominent. She was undeniably attractive without being in any way classically beautiful.

The Earthman was staring at the nameplate she wore on the blouse covering the upper slope of her high, not-too-large left breast. She decided it was really the name-plate he was looking at, not the breast, though the blouse was semi-transparent when it caught the light at a particular angle and there was no garment beneath it.

He said, “Are there many Selenes here?”

“Oh, yes. Hundreds, I think. Also Cynthias, Dianas, and Artemises. Selene is a little tiresome. Half the Selenes I know are called ‘Silly’ and the other half ‘Lena.’ ”

“Which are you?”

“Neither. I am Selene, all three syllables. SELL-uh-nee,” she said, coming down heavily on the first syllable, “to those who use my first name at all.”

There was a small smile on the Earthman’s face that sat there as though he weren’t quite used to it. He said, “And what if anyone asks you if you sell any, Selene?”

“They never ask me that again!” she said, firmly.

“But do they ask you?”

“There are fools always.”

A waitress had reached their table and had placed the dishes before them with quick, smooth motions.

The Earthman was visibly impressed. He said to the waitress, “You make them seem to float down.”

The waitress smiled and moved on.

Selene said, “Don’t you try to do the same. She’s used to the gravity and can handle it.”

“And if I try, I’ll drop everything? Is that it?”

“You’ll make a gorgeous mess,” she said.

“Well, I won’t try.”

“There’s a good chance someone will before long, and the plate will flow down to the floor and they’ll grab for it and miss, and ten to one knock themselves out of their chair. I’d warn them, but it never helps and they’re just all the more embarrassed. Everyone else will laugh—the tourists, that is, because the rest of us have seen it too often to find it funny and because it’s just a cleanup job.”

The Earthman was lifting his fork carefully. “I see what you mean. Even the simplest motions seem queer.”

“Actually, you get used to it quickly enough. At least to little things like eating. Walking is harder. I never saw an Earthman run efficiently out here. Not really efficiently.”

For a while they ate in silence. Then he said, “What does the L. stand for?” He was looking at her nameplate again. It said, “Selene Lindstrom L.”

“It just means Luna,” she said, rather indifferently, “to distinguish me from the immigrants. I was born here.”

“Really?”

“That’s nothing to be surprised about. We’ve had a working society here for over half a century. Don’t you think babies are born here? We have people here who were born here and are grandparents.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” she said.

He looked startled, then mumbled, “Of course.”

Selene raised her eyebrows. “You mean you understand? Most Earthmen have to have it explained.”

The Earthman said, “I know enough to know that most of the visible signs of aging are the result of the inexorable victory of gravity over tissue—the sagging of cheek and the drooping of breast. With the Moon’s gravity one-sixth that of Earth, it isn’t really hard to understand that people will stay young-looking.”

Selene said, “Only young-looking. It doesn’t mean we have immortality here. The life-span is about that of Earth, but most of us are more comfortable in old age.”

“That’s not to be dismissed. ... Of course, there are penalties, I suppose.” He had just taken his first sip of his coffee. “You have to drink this—” He paused for a word and must have discarded it, for he used none.

“We could import food and beverages from Earth,” she said, amused, “but only enough to feed a fraction of us a fraction of the time. There’d be no point to that when we can use the space for more vital items. Besides, we’re used to this crud. ... Or were you going to use a still stronger word?”

“Not for the coffee,” he said. “I was going to save that for the food. But crud will do.... Tell me,” Miss Lindstrom. I didn’t see any mention on the tour itinerary of the proton synchrotron.”