Exile From SpaceExile From Space
 
I don't know where they got the car. We made three or four stops before the last 
one, and they must have picked it up one of those times. Anyhow, they got it, 
but they had to make a license plate, because it had the wrong kind on it. 
They made me some clothes, too — a skirt and blouse and shoes that looked just 
like the ones we saw on television. They couldn't make me a lipstick or any of 
those things, because there was no way to figure out just what the chemical 
composition was. And they decided I'd be as well off without any driver's 
license or automobile registration as I would be with papers that weren't 
exactly perfect, so they didn't bother about making those either. 
They were worried about what to do with my hair, and even thought about cutting 
it short, so it would look more like the women on television, but that was one 
time I was way ahead of them. I'd seen more shows than anyone else, of course — 
I watched them almost every minute, from the time they told me I was going — and 
there was one where I'd seen a way to make braids and put them around the top of 
your head. It wasn't very comfortable, but I practiced at it until it looked 
pretty good. 
They made me a purse, too. It didn't have anything in it except the diamonds, 
but the women we saw always seemed to carry them, and they thought it might be a 
sort of superstition or ritual necessity, and that we'd better not take a chance 
on violating anything like that. 
They made me spend a lot of time practicing with the car, because without a 
license, I couldn't take a chance on getting into any trouble. I must have put 
in the better part of an hour starting and stopping and backing that thing, and 
turning it around, and weaving through trees and rocks, before they were 
satisfied. 
Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing left to do except go. They made me 
repeat everything one more time, about selling the diamonds, and how to register 
at the hotel, and what to do if I got into trouble, and how to get in touch with 
them when I wanted to come back. Then they said good-bye, and made me promise 
not to stay too long, and said they'd keep in touch the best they could. And 
then I got in the car, and drove down the hill into town. 
I knew they didn't want to let me go. They were worried, maybe even a little 
afraid I wouldn't want to come back, but mostly worried that I might say 
something I shouldn't, or run into some difficulties they hadn't anticipated. 
And outside of that, they knew they were going to miss me. Yet they'd made up 
their minds to it; they planned it this way, and they felt it was the right 
thing to do, and certainly they'd put an awful lot of thought and effort and 
preparation into it. 
If it hadn't been for that, I might have turned back at the last minute. Maybe 
they were worried; but I was petrified. Only of course, I wanted to go, really. 
I couldn't help being curious, and it never occurred to me then that I might 
miss them. It was the first time I'd ever been out on my own, and they'd 
promised me, for years and years, as far back as I could remember, that some day 
I'd go back, like this, by myself. But ... 
Going back, when you've been away long enough, is not so much a homecoming as a 
dream deja vu. And for me, at least, the dream was not entirely a happy one. 
Everything I saw or heard or touched had a sense of haunting familiarity, and 
yet of wrongness, too — almost a nightmare feeling of the oppressively 
inevitable sequence of events, of faces and features and events just 
not-quite-remembered and not-quite-known. 
I was born in this place, but it was not my home. Its people were not mine; its 
ways were not mine. All I knew of it was what I had been told, and what I had 
seen for myself these last weeks of preparation, on the television screen. And 
the dream-feeling was intensified, at first, by the fact that I did not know why 
I was there. I knew it had been planned this way, and I had been told it was 
necessary to complete my education. Certainly I was aware of the great effort 
that had been made to make the trip possible. But I did not yet understand just 
why. 
Perhaps it was just that I had heard and watched and thought and dreamed too 
much about this place, and now I was actually there, the reality was — not so 
much a disappointment as — just sort of unreal. Different from what I knew when 
I didn't know. 
The road unwound in a spreading spiral down the mountainside. Each time I came 
round, I could see the city below, closer and larger, and less distinct. From 
the top, with the sunlight sparkling on it, it had been a clean and gleaming 
pattern of human civilization. Halfway down, the symmetry was lost, and the 
smudge and smoke began to show. 
Halfway down, too, I began to pass places of business: restaurants and gas 
stations and handicraft shops. I wanted to stop. For half an hour now I had been 
out on my own, and I still hadn't seen any of the people, except the three who 
had passed me behind the wheels of their cars, going up the road. One of the 
shops had a big sign on it, "COME IN AND LOOK AROUND." But I kept going. One 
thing I understood was that it was absolutely necessary to have money, and that 
I must stop nowhere, and attempt nothing, till after I had gotten some. 
Farther down, the houses began coming closer together, and then the road stopped 
winding around, and became almost straight. By that time, I was used to the car, 
and didn't have to think about it much, and for a little while I really enjoyed 
myself. I could see into the houses sometimes, through the windows, and at one, 
a woman was opening the door, coming out with a broom in her hand. There were 
children playing in the yards. There were cars of all kinds parked around the 
houses, and I saw dogs and a couple of horses, and once a whole flock of 
chickens. 
But just where it was beginning to get really interesting, when I was coming 
into the little town before the city, I had to stop watching it all, because 
there were too many other people driving. That was when I began to understand 
all the fuss about licenses and tests and traffic regulations. Watching it on 
television, it wasn't anything like being in the middle of it! 
Of course, what I ran into there was really nothing; I found that out when I got 
into the city itself. But just at first, it seemed pretty bad. And I still don't 
understand it. These people are pretty bright mechanically. You'd think anybody 
who could build an automobile — let alone an atom bomb —could drive one easily 
enough. Especially with a lifetime to learn in. Maybe they just like to live 
dangerously ... 
It was a good thing, though, that I'd already started watching out for what the 
other drivers were doing when I hit my first red light. That was something I'd 
overlooked entirely, watching street scenes on the screen, and I guess they'd 
never noticed either. They must have taken it for granted, the way I did, that 
people stopped their cars out of courtesy from time to time to let the other go 
by. As it was, I stopped because the others did, and just happened to notice 
that they began again when the light changed to green. It's really a very good 
system; I don't see why they don't have them at all the intersections. 
From the first light, it was eight miles into the center of Colorado Springs. A 
sign on the road said so, and I was irrationally pleased when the speedometer on 
the car confirmed it. Proud, I suppose, that these natives from my own 
birthplace were such good gadgeteers. The road was better after that, too, and 
the cars didn't dart in and out off the side streets the way they had before. 
There was more traffic on the highway, but most of them behaved fairly 
intelligently. Until we got into town, that is. After that, it was 
everybody-for-himself, but by then I was prepared for it. 
I found a place to park the car near a drugstore. That was the first thing I was 
supposed to do. Find a drugstore, where there would likely be a telephone 
directory, and go in and look up the address of a hock shop. I had a little 
trouble parking the car in the space they had marked off, but I could see from 
the way the others were stationed that you were supposed to get in between the 
white lines, with the front of the car next to the post on the sidewalk. I 
didn't know what the post was for, until I got out and read what it said, and 
then I didn't know what to do, because I didn't have any money. Not yet. And I 
didn't dare get into any trouble that might end up with a policeman asking to 
see my license, which always seemed to be the first thing they did on 
television, when they talked to anybody who was driving a car. I got back in the 
car and wriggled my way out of the hole between the other cars, and tried to 
think what to do. Then I remembered seeing a sign that said "Free Parking" 
somewhere, not too far away, and went back the way I'd come. 
There was a sort of park, with a fountain spraying water all over the grass, and 
a big building opposite, and the white lines here were much more sensible. They 
were painted in diagonal strips, so you could get in and out quite easily, 
without all that backing and twisting and turning. I left the car there, and 
remembered to take the keys with me, and started walking back to the drugstore. 
That was when it hit me. 
Up to then, beginning I guess when I drove that little stretch coming into 
Manitou, with the houses on the hills, and the children and yards and dogs and 
chickens, I'd begun to feel almost as if I belonged here. The people seemed so 
much like me — as long as I wasn't right up against them. From a little 
distance, you'd think there was no difference at all. Then, I guess, when I was 
close enough to notice, driving through town, I'd been too much preoccupied with 
the car. It didn't really get to me till I got out and started walking. 
They were all so big . . . 
They were big, and their faces and noses and even the pores of their skin were 
too big. And their voices were too loud. And they smelled. 
I didn't notice that last much till I got into the drugstore. Then I thought I 
was going to suffocate, and I had a kind of squeezing upside-down feeling in my 
stomach and diaphragm and throat, which I didn't realize till later was what 
they meant by "being sick." I stood over the directory rack, pretending to read, 
but really just struggling with my insides, and a man came along and shouted in 
my ear something that sounded like, "Vvvm trubbb 111-111-111 ay-dee?" (I didn't 
get that sorted out for hours afterwards, but I don't think I'll ever forget 
just the way it sounded at the time. Of course, he meant, "Having trouble, 
little lady?") But all I knew at the time was he was too big and smelled of all 
kinds of things that were unfamiliar and slightly sickening. I couldn't answer 
him. All I could do was turn away so as not to breathe him, and try to pretend I 
knew what I was doing with the directory. Then he hissed at me ("Sorry, no 
offense," I figured out later), and said clearly enough so I could understand 
even then, "Just trying to help," and walked away. 
As soon as he was gone, I walked out myself. Directory or no directory, I had to 
get out of that store. I went back to where I'd left the car, but instead of 
getting in it, I sat down on a bench in the park, and waited till the turmoil 
inside me began to quiet down. 
I went back into that drugstore once before I left, purposely, just to see if I 
could pin down what it was that had bothered me so much, because I never reacted 
that strongly afterwards, and I wondered if maybe it was just that it was the 
first time I was inside one of their buildings. But it was more than that; that 
place was a regular snake-pit of a treatment for a stranger, believe me! They 
had a tobacco counter, and a lunch counter and a perfume-and-toiletries section, 
and a nut-roasting machine, and just to top it off, in the back of the store, an 
open-to-look-at (and smell) pharmaceutical center! Everything, all mixed 
together, and compounded with stale human sweat, which was also new to me at the 
time. And no air conditioning. 
Most of the air conditioning they have is bad enough on its own, with chemical 
smells, but those are comparatively easy to get used to ... and I'll take them 
any time, over what I got in that first dose of Odeur d'Earth. 
Anyhow, I sat on the park bench about fifteen minutes, I guess, letting the sun 
and fresh air seep in, and trying to tabulate and memorize as many of the 
components of that drugstore smell as I could, for future reference. I was 
simply going to have to adjust to them, and next time I wanted to be prepared. 
All the same, I didn't feel prepared to go back into the same place. Maybe 
another store wouldn't be quite as bad. I started walking in the opposite 
direction, staying on the wide main street, where all the big stores seemed to 
be, and two blocks down, I ran into luck, because there was a big bracket 
sticking out over the sidewalk from the front of a store halfway down a side 
street, and it had the three gold balls hanging from it that I knew, from 
television, meant the kind of place I wanted. When I walked down to it, I saw 
too that they had a sign painted over the window: "We buy old gold and 
diamonds." 
Just how lucky that was, I didn't realize till quite some time later. I was 
going to look in the Classified Directory for "Hock Shops." I didn't know any 
other name for them then. 
Inside, it looked exactly like what I expected, and even the smell was nothing 
to complain about. Camphor and dust and mustiness were strong enough to cover 
most of the sweaty smell, and those were smells of a kind I'd experienced 
before, in other places. 
The whole procedure was reassuring, because it all went just the way it was 
supposed to, and I knew how to behave. I'd seen it in a show, and the man behind 
the grilled window even looked like the man on the screen, and talked the same 
way. 
"What can we do for you, girlie?" 
"I'd like to sell a diamond," I told him. 
He didn't say anything at first, then he looked impatient. "You got it with 
you?" 
"Oh, yes!" I opened my purse, and took out one of the little packages, and 
unwrapped it, and handed it to him. He screwed the lens into his eye, and walked 
back from the window and put it on a little scale, and turned back and unscrewed 
the lens and looked at me. 
"Where'd you get this, lady?" he asked me. 
"It's mine," I said. I knew just how to do it. We'd gone over this half a dozen 
times before I left, and he was behaving exactly the way we'd expected. 
"I don't know," he said. "Can't do much with an unset stone like this." He 
pursed his lips, tossed the diamond carelessly in his hand, and then pushed it 
back at me across the counter. I had to keep myself from smiling. It was just 
the way they'd said it would be. The people here were still in the Mech Age, of 
course, and not nearly conscious enough to communicate anything at all complex 
or abstract any way except verbally. But there is nothing abstract about 
avarice, and between what I'd been told to expect, and what I could feel pouring 
out of him, I knew precisely what was going on in his mind. 
"You mean you don't want it?" I said. "I thought it was worth quite a lot." 
"Might have been once." He shrugged. "You can't do much with a stone like that 
any more. Where'd you get it, girlie?" 
"My mother gave it to me. A long time ago. I wouldn't sell it, except ... Look," 
I said, and didn't have to work hard to sound desperate, because, in a way, I 
was. "Look, it must be worth something?" 
He picked it up again. "Well ... what do you want for it?" 
That went on for quite a while. I knew what it was supposed to be worth, of 
course, but I didn't hope to get even half of that. He offered seventy dollars, 
and I asked for five hundred, and after a while he gave me three-fifty, and I 
felt I'd done pretty well — for a greenhorn. I put the money in my purse, and 
went back to the car, and on the way I saw a policeman, so I stopped and asked 
him about a hotel. He looked me up and down, and started asking questions about 
how old I was, and what was my name and where did I live, and I began to realize 
that being so much smaller than the other people was going to make life 
complicated. I told him I'd come to visit my brother in the Academy, and he 
smiled, and said, "Your brother, is it?" Then he told me the name of a place 
just outside of town, near the Academy. It wasn't a hotel; it was a motel, which 
I didn't know about at that time, but he said I'd be better off there. A lot of 
what he said went right over my head at the time; later I realized what he meant 
about "a nice respectable couple" running the place. I found out later on, too, 
that he called them up to ask them to keep an eye on me; he thought I was a nice 
girl, but he was worried about my being alone there. 
By this time, I was getting hungry, but I thought I'd better go and arrange 
about a place to stay first. I found the motel without much trouble, and went in 
and registered; I knew how to do that, at least — I'd seen it plenty of times. 
They gave me a key, and the man who ran the place asked me did I want any help 
with my bags. 
"Oh, no," I said. "No, thanks. I haven't got much." 
I'd forgotten all about that, and they'd never thought about it either! These 
people always have a lot of different clothes, not just one set, and you're 
supposed to have a suitcase full of things when you go to stay anyplace. I said 
I was hungry anyway, and wanted to go get something to eat, and do a couple of 
other things — I didn't say what — before I got settled. So the woman walked 
over with me, and showed me which cabin it was, and asked was everything all 
right? 
It looked all right to me. The room had a big bed in it, with sheets and a 
blanket and pillows and a bedspread, just like the ones I'd seen on television. 
And there was a chest of drawers, and a table with more small drawers in it, and 
two chairs and a mirror and door that went into a closet and one that led to the 
bathroom. The fixtures in there were a little different from the ones they'd 
made for me to practice in, but functionally they seemed about the same. 
I didn't look for any difficulty with anything there except the bed, and that 
wasn't her fault, so I assured her everything was just fine, and let her show me 
how to operate the gas-burner that was set in the wall for heat. Then we went 
out, and she very carefully locked the door, and handed me the key. 
"You better keep that door locked," she said, just a little sharply. "You never 
know . . . " 
I wanted to ask her what you never know, but had the impression that it was 
something everybody was supposed to know, so I just nodded and agreed instead. 
"You want to get some lunch," she said then, "there's a place down the road 
isn't too bad. Clean, anyhow, and they don't cater too much to those . . . well, 
it's clean." She pointed the way; you could see the sign from where we were 
standing. I thanked her, and started the car, and decided I might as well go 
there as anyplace else, especially since I could see she was watching to find 
out whether I did or not. 
These people are all too big. Or almost all of them. But the man behind the 
counter at the dinner was enormous. He was tall and fat with a beefy red face 
and large open pores and a fleshy mound of a nose. I didn't like to look at him, 
and when he talked, he boomed so loud I could hardly understand him. On top of 
all that, the smell in that place was awful: not quite as bad as the drugstore, 
but some ways similar to it. I kept my eyes on the menu, which was full of 
unfamiliar words, and tried to remember that I was hungry. 
The man was shouting at me — or it was more like growling, I guess — and I 
couldn't make out the words at first. He said it again, and I sorted out 
syllables and matched them with the words on the card, and then I got it: 
"Goulash is nice today, miss . . ." 
I didn't know what goulash was, and the state my stomach was in, with the 
smells, I decided I'd better play safe, and ordered a glass of milk, and some 
vegetable soup. 
The milk had a strange taste to it. Not bad — just different. But of course, 
this came from cows. That was all right. But the vegetable soup . . . ! 
It was quite literally putrid, made as near as I could figure out from dead 
animal juices, in which vegetables had been soaked and cooked till any trace of 
flavor or nourishment was entirely removed. I took one taste of that, and then I 
realized what the really nauseating part of the odor was, in the diner and the 
drugstore both. It was rotten meat, dead for some time, and then heated in 
preparation for eating. 
The crackers that came with the soup were good; they had a nice salty tang. I 
ordered more of those, with another glass of milk, and sat back sipping slowly, 
trying to adjust to that smell, now that I realized I'd probably find it 
anywhere I could find food. 
After a while, I got my insides enough in order so that I could look around a 
little and see the place, and the other people in it. That was when I turned 
around and saw Larry sitting next to me. 
He was beautiful. He is beautiful. I know that's not what you're supposed to say 
about a man, and he wouldn't like it, but I can only say what I see, and of 
course that's partly a matter of my own training and my own feelings about 
myself. 
At home on the ship, I always wanted to cut off my hair, because it was so 
black, and my skin was so white, and they didn't go together. But they wouldn't 
let me; they liked it that way, I guess, but I didn't. No child wants to feel 
like a freak, and nobody else had hair like that, or dead-white colorless skin, 
either. 
Then, when I went down there, and saw all the humans, I was still a freak 
because I was so small. 
Larry's small, too. Almost as small as I am. And he's all one color. He has 
hair, of course, but it's so light, and his skin is so dark (both from the sun, 
I found out), that he looks just about the same lovely golden color all over. Or 
at least as much of him as showed when I saw him that time, in the diner. 
He was beautiful, and he was my size, and he didn't have ugly rough skin or big 
heavy hands. I stared at him, and I felt like grabbing on to him to make sure he 
didn't get away. 
After a while I realized my mouth was half-open, and I was still holding a 
cracker, and I remembered that this was very bad manners. I put the cracker down 
and closed my mouth. He smiled. I didn't know if he was laughing at the odd way 
I was acting, or just being friendly, but I smiled back anyhow. 
"I'm sorry," he said. "I mean, hello. How do you do, and I'm sorry if I startled 
you. I shouldn't have been staring." 
"You" I said, and meant to finish. You were staring? But he went right on 
talking, so that I couldn't finish. 
"I don't know what else you can expect, if you go around looking like that," he 
said. 
"I'm sorry . . . " I started again. 
"And you should be," he said sternly. "Anybody who walks into a place like this 
in the middle of a day like this looking the way you do has got to expect to get 
stared at a little." 
The thing is, I wasn't used to the language; not used enough. I could 
communicate all right, and even understand some jokes, and I knew the spoken 
language, not some formal unusable version, because I learned it mostly watching 
those shows on the television screen. But I got confused this time, because 
"looking" means two different things, active and passive, and I was thinking 
about how I'd been looking at him, and . . . 
That was my lucky day. I didn't want him to be angry at me, and the way I saw 
it, he was perfectly justified in scolding me, which is what I thought he was 
doing. But I knew he wasn't really angry; I'd have felt it if he was. So I said, 
"You're right. It was very rude of me, and I don't blame you for being annoyed. 
I won't do it any more." 
He started laughing, and this time I knew it was friendly. Like I said, that was 
my lucky day; he thought I was being witty. And, from what he's told me since, I 
guess he realized then that I felt friendly too, because before that he'd just 
been bluffing it out, not knowing how to get to know me, and afraid I'd be sore 
at him, just for talking to me! 
Which goes to show that sometimes you're better off not being too familiar with 
the local customs. 
The trouble was there were too many things I didn't know, too many small ways to 
trip myself up. Things they couldn't have foreseen, or if they did, couldn't 
have done much about. All it took was a little caution and a lot of alertness, 
plus one big important item: staying in the background — not getting to know any 
one person too well — not giving any single individual a chance to observe too 
much about me. 
But Larry didn't mean to let me do that. And I didn't want him to. 
He asked questions; I tried to answer them. I did know enough at least of the 
conventions to realize that I didn't have to give detailed answers, or could, at 
any point, act offended at being questioned so much. I didn't know enough to 
realize that reluctance or irritation on my part wouldn't have made him go away. 
We sat on those stools at the diner for most of an hour, talking, and after a 
little while I found I could keep the conversation on safer ground by asking him 
about himself, and about the country thereabouts. He seemed to enjoy talking. 
Eventually, he had to go back to work. As near as I could make out, he was a 
test-pilot, or something like it, for a small experimental aircraft plant near 
the city. He lived not too far from where I was staying, and he wanted to see me 
that evening. 
I hadn't told him where the motel was, and I had at least enough caution left 
not to tell him, even then. I did agree to meet him at the diner, but for lunch 
the next day again, instead of that evening. For one thing, I had a lot to do; 
and for another, I'd seen enough on television shows to know that an evening 
date was likely to be pretty long-drawn-out, and I wasn't sure I could stand up 
under that much close scrutiny. I had some studying-up to do first. But the 
lunch-date was fine; the thought of not seeing him at all was terrifying — as if 
he were an old friend in a world full of strangers. That was how I felt, that 
first time, maybe just because he was almost as small as I. But I think it was 
more than that, really. 
I drove downtown again, and found a store that seemed to sell all kinds of 
clothing for women. Then when I got inside, I didn't know where to start, or 
what to get. I thought of just buying one of everything, so as to fill up a 
suitcase; the things I had on seemed to be perfectly satisfactory for actual 
wearing purposes. They were quite remarkably — when you stopped to think of it — 
similar to what most of the women I'd seen that day were wearing, and of course 
they weren't subject to the same problems of dirtying and wrinkling and such as 
the clothes in the store were. 
I walked around for a while, trying to figure out what all the different items, 
shapes, sizes, and colors, were for. Some racks and counters had signs, but most 
of them were unfamiliar words like brunchies, or Bermudas or scuffs; or else 
they seemed to be mislabeled, like dusters for a sort of button-down dress, and 
Postage Stamp Girdles at one section of a long counter devoted to "Foundation 
Garments." For half an hour or so, I wandered around in there, shaking my head 
every time a saleswoman came up to me, because I didn't know, and couldn't 
figure out, what to ask for, or how to ask for it. 
The thing was, I didn't dare draw too much attention to myself by doing or 
saying the wrong things. I'd have to find out more about clothes, somehow, 
before I could do much buying. 
I went out, and on the same block I found a show-window full of suitcases. That 
was easy. I went in and pointed to one I liked, and paid for it, and walked out 
with it, feeling a little braver. After all, nobody had to know there was 
nothing in it. On the corner, I saw some books displayed in the window of a drug 
store. It took all the courage I had to go in there, after my first trip into 
one that looked very much like it, but I wanted a dictionary. This place didn't 
smell quite so strong; I suppose the pharmacy was enclosed in back, and I don't 
believe it had a lunch counter. Anyhow, I got in and out quickly, and walked 
back to the car, and sat down with the dictionary. 
It turned out to be entirely useless, at least as far as brunchies and Bermudas 
were concerned. It had "scuff, v.," with a definition; "v.," I found out, meant 
verb, so that wasn't the word I wanted, but when I remembered the slippers on 
the counter with the sign, it made sense in a way. 
Not enough sense, though. I decided to forget about the clothes for a while. The 
next problem was a driver's license. 
The policeman that morning had been helpful, if over-interested, and since 
policemen directed traffic, they ought to have the information I wanted. I found 
one of them standing on a streetcorner looking not too busy, and asked him, and 
if his hair hadn't been brown instead of reddish (and only half there) I'd have 
thought it was the same one I talked to before. He wanted to know how old I was, 
and where was I from, and what I was doing there, and did I have a car, and was 
I sure I was nineteen? 
Well, of course, I wasn't sure, but they'd told me that by the local reckoning, 
that was my approximate age. And I almost slipped and said I had a car, until I 
realized that I didn't have a right to drive one till I had a license. After he 
asked that one question, I began to feel suspicious about everything else he 
asked, and the interest he expressed. He was helpful, but I had to remember too, 
that it was the police who were charged with watching for suspicious characters, 
and — well, it was the last time I asked a policeman for information. 
He did tell me where I could rent a car to take my road test, though, and where 
to apply for the test. The Courthouse turned out to be the big building behind 
the square where I'd parked the car that morning, and arranging for the test 
turned out to be much simpler than, by then, I expected it to be. In a way, I 
suppose, all the questions I had to answer when I talked to the policeman had 
prepared me for the official session —though they didn't seem nearly so 
inquisitive there. 
By this time, I'd come to expect that they wouldn't believe my age when I told 
them. The woman at the window behind the counter wanted to see a "birth 
certificate," and I produced the one piece of identification I had; an ancient 
and yellowed document they had kept for me all these years. From the information 
it contained, I suspected it might even be a birth certificate; whether or not, 
it apparently satisfied her, and after that all she wanted was things like my 
address and height and weight. Fortunately, they had taken the trouble, back on 
the ship, to determine these statistics for me, because things like that were 
always coming up on television shows, especially when people were being 
questioned by the police. For the address, of course, I used the motel. The rest 
I knew, and I guess we had the figures close enough to right so that at least 
the woman didn't question any of it. 
I had my road test about half an hour later, in a rented car, and the examiner 
said I did very well. He seemed surprised, and I don't wonder, considering the 
way most of those people contrive to mismanage a simple mechanism like an 
automobile. I guess when they say Earth is still in the Mechanical Age, what 
they mean is that humans are just learning about machines. 
The biggest single stroke of luck I had at any time came during that road test. 
We passed a public-looking building with a sign in front that I didn't 
understand. 
"What's that place?" I asked the examiner, and he said, as if anyone would know 
what he meant, "That? Oh—the Library." 
I looked it up in my dictionary as soon as I was done at the License Bureau, and 
when I found out what it was, everything became a great deal simpler. 
There was a woman who worked there, who showed me, without any surprise at my 
ignorance, just how the card catalogue worked, and what the numbering system 
meant; she didn't ask me how old I was, or any other questions, or demand any 
proof of any kind to convince her I had a right to use the place. She didn't 
even bother me much with questions about what I was looking for. I told her 
there were a lot of things I wanted to know, and she seemed to think that was a 
good answer, and said if she could help me any way, not to hesitate to ask, and 
then she left me alone with those drawers and drawers full of letter-and-number 
keys to all the mysteries of an alien world. 
I found a book on how to outfit your daughter for college, that started with 
underwear and worked its way through to jewelry and cosmetics. I also found a 
whole shelf full of law books, and in one of them, specific information about 
the motor vehicle regulations in different States. There was a wonderful book 
about diamonds and other precious stones, particularly fascinating because it 
went into the chemistry of the different stones, and gave me the best 
measuring-stick I found at any time to judge the general level of technology of 
that so-called Mechanical Age. 
That was all I had time for. I couldn't believe it was so late, when the 
librarian came and told me they were closing up, and I guess my disappointment 
must have showed all over me, because she asked if I wouldn't like to have a 
card, so I could take books home? 
I found out all I needed to get a card was identification. I was supposed to 
have a reference, too, but the woman said she thought perhaps it would be all 
right without one, in my case. And then, when I wanted to take a volume of the 
Encyclopedia Americana, she said they didn't usually circulate that, but if I 
thought I could bring it back within a day or two ... 
I promised to, and I never did, and out of everything that happened, that's the 
one thing I feel badly about. I think she must have been a very unusual and good 
sort of woman, and I wish I had kept my promise to her. 
Some of the stores downtown were still open. I bought the things I'd be expected 
to have, as near as I could make out from the book on college girls: panties and 
a garter belt and a brassiere, and stockings. A slip and another blouse, and a 
coat, because even in the early evening it was beginning to get chilly. Then the 
salesgirl talked me into gloves and a scarf and some earrings. I was halfway 
back to the car when I remembered about night clothes, and went back for a gown 
and robe and slippers. That didn't begin to complete the college girls' list, 
but it seemed like a good start. I'd need a dress, too, I thought, if I ever did 
go out with Larry in the evening . . . but that could wait. 
I put everything into the suitcase, and drove back to the motel. On the way, I 
stopped at a food store and bought a large container of milk, and some crackers, 
and some fruit —oranges and bananas and apples. Back in my room, I put 
everything away in the drawers, and then sat down with my book and my food, and 
had a wonderful time. I was hungry, and everything tasted good, away from the 
dead meat smells, and what with clothes in the drawers and everything, I was 
beginning to feel like a real Earth-girl. 
I even took a bath in the bathroom. 
A good long one. Next to the library, that's the thing I miss most. It would be 
even better, if they made the tubs bigger, so you could swim around some. But 
just getting wet all over like that, and splashing in the water, is fun. Of 
course, we could never spare enough water for that on the ship. 
Altogether, it was a good evening; everything was fine until I tried to sleep in 
that bed. I felt as if I was being suffocated all over. The floor was almost as 
bad, but in a different way. And once I got to sleep, I guess I slept well 
enough, because I felt fine in the morning. But then, I think I must have been 
on a mild oxygen jag all the time I was down there; nothing seemed to bother me 
too much. That morning, I felt so good I worked up my courage to go into a 
restaurant again — a different one. The smell was beginning to be familiar, and 
I could manage better. I experimented with a cereal called oatmeal, which was 
delicious, then I went back to the motel, packed up all my new belongings, left 
the key on the desk — as instructed by the sign on the door — and started out 
for Denver. 
Denver, according to the Encyclopedia Americana, is more of a true metropolitan 
area than Colorado Springs; that means — on Earth — that it is dirtier, more 
crowded, far less pleasant to look at or live in, and a great deal more 
convenient and efficient to do business in. In Denver, and with the aid of a 
Colorado driver's license for casual identification, I was able to sell two of 
my larger diamonds fairly quickly, at two different places, for something 
approximating half of their full value. Then I parked the car they had given me 
on a side street, took my suitcase, coat, and book with me, and walked to the 
nearest car sales lot. I left the keys in the old car, for the convenience of 
anyone who might want it. 
Everything went extraordinarily smoothly, with just one exception. I had found 
out everything I needed to know in that library, except that when dealing with 
humans, one must always allow for waste time. If I had realized that at the time 
I left Colorado Springs that morning, everything might have turned out very 
differently indeed — although when I try to think just what other way it could 
have turned out I don't quite know . . . and I wonder, too, how much they knew, 
or planned, before they sent me down there . . . 
This much is sure: if I hadn't assumed that a 70-mile trip, with a 60-mile 
average speed limit, would take approximately an hour and a half, and if I had 
realized that buying an automobile was not the same simple process as buying a 
nightgown, I wouldn't have been late for my luncheon appointment. And if I'd 
been there on time, I'd never have made the date for that night. As it was, I 
started out at seven o'clock in the morning, and only by exceeding the speed 
limit on the last twenty miles of the return trip did I manage to pull into that 
diner parking space at five minutes before two. 
His car was still there! 
It is so easy to look back and spot the instant of recognition or of error. My 
relief when I saw his car ... my delight when I walked in and saw and felt his 
mixture of surprise and joy that I had come, with disappointment and frustration 
because it was so late, and he had to leave almost immediately. And my complete 
failure, in the midst of the complexities of these inter-reactions, to think 
logically, or to recognize that his ordinary perceptions were certainly the 
equivalent of my own ... 
At that moment, I wasn't thinking about any of these things. I spent a delirious 
sort of five minute period absorbing his feelings about me, and releasing my own 
at him. I hadn't planned to do it, not so soon, not till I knew much more than I 
did — perhaps after another week's reading and going about—but when he said that 
since I'd got there so late for lunch, I'd have to meet him for dinner, I found 
I agreed with him perfectly. 
That afternoon, I bought a dress. This, too, took a great deal of time, even 
more than the car, because in the one case I simply had to look at a number of 
component parts, and listen to the operation of the motor, and feel for the 
total response of the mechanism, to determine whether it was suitable or not—but 
in the other, I had nothing to guide me but my own untrained taste, and the 
dubious preferences of the salesgirl, plus what I thought Larry's reactions 
might be. Also, I had to determine, without seeming too ignorant, just what sort 
of dress might be suitable for a dinner date — and without knowing for sure just 
how elaborate Larry's plans for the evening might be. 
I learned a lot, and was startled to find that I enjoyed myself tremendously. 
But I couldn't make up my mind, and bought three dresses instead of one. It was 
after that, emboldened by pleasure and success, that I went back to that first 
drugstore. The Encyclopedia volume I had taken from the library, besides 
containing the information I wanted on Colorado, had an article on Cosmetics. I 
decided powder was unnecessary, although I could understand easily enough how 
important it must be to the native women, with their thick skin and large pores 
and patchy coloring; that accounted for the fact that the men were mostly so 
much uglier . . . and I wondered if Larry used it, and if that was why his skin 
looked so much better than the others'. 
Most of the perfumes made me literally ill; a few were inoffensive or mildly 
pleasant, if you thought of them just as smells, and not as something to be 
mistaken for one's own smell. Apparently, though, from the amount of space given 
over to them on the counter, and the number of advertisements I had seen or 
heard for one brand or another, they were an essential item. I picked out a 
faint lavender scent, and then bought some lipstick, mascara, and eyebrow 
pencil. On these last purchases, it was a relief to find that I had no 
opportunity to display my ignorance about nuances of coloring, or the merits of 
one brand over another. The woman behind the counter knew exactly what I should 
have, and was not interested in hearing any of my opinions. She even told me how 
to apply the mascara, which was helpful, since the other two were obvious, and 
anyhow I'd seen them used on television, and the lipstick especially I had seen 
women use since I'd been here. 
It turned out to be a little more difficult than it looked, when I tried it. 
Cosmetics apparently take a good deal more experience than clothing, if you want 
to have it look right. Right by their standards, I mean, so that your face 
becomes a formal design, and will register only a minimum of actual emotion or 
response. 
I was supposed to meet Larry in the cocktail lounge of a hotel in Manitou 
Springs, the smaller town I'd passed through the day before on my way down from 
the mountain. I drove back that way now, with all my possessions in my new car, 
including the purse that held not only my remaining diamonds and birth 
certificate, but also a car registration, driver's license, wallet, and makeup. 
A little more than halfway there, I saw a motel with a "Vacancy" sign out, and 
an attractive clean look about it. I pulled in and got myself a room with no 
more concern than if I'd been doing that sort of thing all my life. 
This time there was no question about my age, nor was there later on that 
evening, in the cocktail lounge or anywhere else. I suppose it was the lipstick 
that made the difference, plus a certain increase in self-confidence; apparently 
I wasn't too small to be an adult, provided I looked and acted like one. 
The new room did not have a bathtub. There was a shower, which was fun, but not 
as much as the tub had been. Dressing was not fun, and when I was finished, the 
whole effect still didn't look right, in terms of my own mental image of an 
Earth-woman dressed for a date. 
It was the shoes, of course. This kind of dress wanted high heels. I had tried a 
pair in the store, and promptly rejected the whole notion. Now I wondered if I'd 
been too hasty, but I realized I could not conceivably have added that 
discomfort to the already-pressing difficulties of stockings and garter belt. 
This last problem got so acute when I sat down and tried to drive the car, that 
I did some thinking about it, and decided to take them off. It seemed to me that 
I'd seen a lot of bare legs with flat heels. It was only with high heels that 
stockings were a real necessity. Anyhow, I pulled the car over to the side on an 
empty stretch of road, and wriggled out of things with a great deal of 
difficulty. I don't believe it made much difference in my appearance. No one 
seemed to notice, and I do think the lack of heels was more important. 
All of this has been easy to put down. The next part is harder: partly because 
it's so important; partly because it's personal; partly because I just don't 
remember it all as clearly. 
Larry was waiting for me when I got to the hotel. He stood up and walked over to 
me, looking at me as if I were the only person in the room besides himself, or 
as if he'd been waiting all his life, and only just that moment saw what it was 
he'd been waiting for. I don't know how I looked at him, but I know how I felt 
all of a sudden, and I don't think I can express it very well. 
It was odd, because of the barriers to communication. The way he felt and the 
way I did are not things to put into words, and although I couldn't help but 
feel the impact of his emotion, I had to remember that he was deaf-and-blind to 
mine. All I could get from him for that matter, was a sort of generalized noise, 
loud but confused, without any features or details. 
He smiled, and I smiled, and he said, "I didn't know if you'd really come . . . 
" and I said, "Am I late?" and he said, "Not much. What do you want to drink?" 
I knew he meant something with alcohol in it, and I didn't dare, not till I'd 
experimented all alone first. 
"Could I get some orange juice?" I asked. 
He smiled again. "You can get anything you want. You don't drink?" He took my 
arm, and walked me over to a booth in the back corner, and went on without 
giving me a chance to answer. "No, of course you don't. Just orange juice and 
milk. Listen, Tina, I've been scared to ask you, but we might as well get it 
over with. How old are you anyhow? . . . " We sat down, but he still didn't give 
me a chance to answer. "No, that's not the right question. Who are you? What are 
you? What makes a girl like you exist at all? How come they let you run around 
on your own like this? Does your mother . . . Never mind me, honey. I've got no 
business asking anything. Sufficient unto the moment, and all that. I'm just 
talking so much because I'm so nervous. I haven't felt like this since . . . 
since I first went up for a solo in a Piper Cub. I didn't think you'd come, and 
you did, and you're still here in spite of me and my dumb yap. "Orange juice for 
the lady, please," he told the waiter, "and a beer for me. Draft." 
I just sat there. As long as he kept talking, I didn't have to. He looked just 
as beautiful as he had in the diner, only maybe more so. His skin was smoother; 
I suppose he'd just shaved. And he was wearing a tan suit just a shade darker 
than his hair, and there was absolutely nothing I could say out loud in his 
language that would mean anything at all, so I waited to see if he'd start 
talking again. 
"You're not mad at me, Tina?" 
I smiled and shook my head. 
"Well, say something then." 
"It's more fun listening to you." 
"You say that just like you mean it ... or do you mean funny?" 
"No. I mean that it's hard for me to talk much. I don't know how to say a lot of 
the things I want to say. And most people don't say anything when they talk, and 
I don't like listening to their voices, but I do like yours, and ... I can't 
help liking what you say ... it's always so nice. About me, I mean. 
Complimentary. Flattering." 
"You were right the first time. And you seem to be able to say what you mean 
very clearly." 
Which was just the trouble. Not only able to, but unable not to. It didn't take 
any special planning or remembering to say or act the necessary lies to other 
humans. But Larry was the least alien person I'd ever known. Dishonesty to him 
was like lying to myself. Playing a role for him was pure schizophrenia. 
Right then, I knew it was a mistake. I should never have made that date, or at 
least not nearly so soon. But even as I thought that, I had no more intention of 
cutting it short or backing out than I did of going back to the ship the next 
day. I just tried not to talk too much, and trusted to the certain knowledge 
that I was as important to him as he was to me —so perhaps whatever mistakes I 
made, whatever I said that sounded wrong, he would either accept or ignore or 
forgive. 
But of course you can't just sit all night and say nothing. And the simplest 
things could trip me up. Like when he asked if I'd like to dance, and all I had 
to say was "No, thanks," and instead, because I wanted to try it, I said, "I 
don't know how." 
Or when he said something about going to a movie, and I agreed enthusiastically, 
and he gave me a choice of three different ones that he wanted to see ... "Oh, 
anyone," I told him, "You're easy to please," he said, but he insisted on my 
making a choice. There was something he called "an old Astaire-Rogers," and 
something else that was made in England, and one current American one with stars 
I'd seen on television. I wanted to see either of the others. I could have named 
one, any one. Instead I heard myself blurting out that I'd never been to a 
movie. 
At that point, of course, he began to ask questions in earnest. And at that 
point, schizoid or not, I had to lie. It was easier, though, because I'd been 
thoroughly briefed in my story, for just such emergencies as this — and because 
I could talk more or less uninterruptedly, with only pertinent questions thrown 
in, and without having to react so much to the emotional tensions between us. 
I told him how my parents had died in an automobile accident when I was a baby; 
how my two uncles had claimed me at the hospital; about the old house up on the 
mountainside, and the convent school, and the two old men who hated the evils of 
the world; about the death of the first uncle, and at long last the death of the 
second, and the lawyers and the will and everything — the whole story, as we'd 
worked it out back on the ship. 
It answered everything, explained everything — even the unexpected item of not 
being able to eat meat. My uncles were vegetarians, which was certainly a 
harmless eccentricity compared to most of the others I credited them with. 
As a story, it was pretty far-fetched, but it hung together —and in certain 
ways, it wasn't even too far removed from the truth. It was, anyhow, the closest 
thing to the truth that I could tell — and I therefore delivered it with a fair 
degree of conviction. Of course it wasn't designed to stand up to the close and 
personal inspection Larry gave it; but then he wanted to believe me. 
He seemed to swallow it. What he did, of course, was something any man who 
relies, as he did, on his reflexes and responses to stay alive, learns to do 
very early — he filed all questions and apparent discrepancies for reference, or 
for thinking over when there was time, and proceeded to make the most of the 
current situation. 
We both made the most of it. It was a wonderful evening, from that point on. We 
went to the Astaire-Rogers picture, and although I missed a lot of the humor, 
since it was contemporary stuff from a time before I had any chance to learn 
about Earth, the music and dancing were fun. Later on, I found that dancing was 
not nearly as difficult or intricate as it looked — at least not with Larry. All 
I had to do was give in to a natural impulse to let my body follow his. It felt 
wonderful, from the feet on up. 
Finally, we went back to the hotel, where we'd left my car, and I started to get 
out of his, but he reached out an arm, and stopped me. 
"There's something else I guess you never did," he said. His voice sounded 
different from before. He put both his hands on my shoulders, and pulled me 
toward him, and leaned over and kissed me. 
I'd seen it, of course, on television. 
I'd seen it, but I had no idea ... 
That first time, it was something I felt on my lips, and felt so sweetly and so 
strongly that the rest of me seemed to melt away entirely. I had no other 
sensations, except in that one place where his mouth touched mine. That was the 
first time. 
When it stopped, the world stopped, and I began again, but I had to sort out the 
parts and pieces and put them all together to find out who I was. While I did 
this, his hands were still on my shoulders, where they'd been all along, only he 
was holding me at arm's distance away from him, and looking at me curiously. 
"It really was, wasn't it?" he said. 
"What?" I tried to say, but the sound didn't come out. I took a breath and "Was 
what?" I croaked. 
"The first time." He smiled suddenly, and it was like the sun coming up in the 
morning, and then his arms went all the way around me. I don't know whether he 
moved over on the seat, or I did, or both of us. "Oh, baby, baby," he whispered 
in my ear, and then there was the second time. 
The second time was like the first, and also like dancing, and some ways like 
the bathtub. This time none of me melted away; it was all there, and all close 
to him, and all warm, and all tingling with sensations. I was more completely 
alive right then than I had even been before in my life. 
After we stopped kissing each other, we stayed very still, holding on to each 
other, for a while, and then he moved away just a little, enough to breathe 
better. 
I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to get out of the car. I didn't even 
want to be separated from him by the two or three inches between us on the seat. 
But he was sitting next to me now, staring straight ahead, not saying anything, 
and I just didn't know what came next. On television, the kiss was always the 
end of the scene. 
He started the car again. I said, "I have to . . . my car . . . I . . ." 
"We'll come back," he said. "Don't worry about it. We'll come back. Let's just 
drive a little . . . ?" he pulled out past my car, and turned and looked at me 
for a minute. "You don't want to go now, do you? Right away?" 
I shook my head, but he wasn't looking at me any more, so I took a breath and 
said out loud, "No." 
We came off a twisty street onto the highway. "So that's how it hits you," he 
said. He wasn't exactly talking to me; more like thinking out loud. 
"Twenty-seven years a cool cat, and now it has to be a crazy little midget that 
gets to you." He had to stop then, for a red light — the same light I'd stopped 
at the first time on the way in. That seemed a long long time before. 
Larry turned around and took my hand. He looked hard at my face. "I'm sorry, 
hon. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." 
"What?" I said. "What do you mean?" I hadn't even tried to make sense out of 
what he was saying before; he wasn't talking to me anyhow. 
"Kid," he said, "maybe that was the first time for you, but in a different way 
it was the first time for me too." His hand opened and closed around mine, and 
his mouth opened and closed too, but nothing came out. The light was green, he 
noticed, and started moving, but it turned red again. This time he kept watching 
it. 
"I don't suppose anybody ever told you about the birds and the bees and the 
butterflies," he said. 
"Told me what about them?" He didn't answer right away, so I thought about it. 
"All I can think of is they all have wings. They all fly." 
"So do I. So does a fly. What I mean is . . . the hell with it!" He turned off 
the highway, and we went up a short hill and through a sort of gateway between 
two enormous rocks. "Have you ever been here?" he asked. 
"I don't think so ..." 
"They call it The Garden of the Gods. I don't know why. I like it here ... it's 
a good place to drive and think." 
There was a lot of moonlight, and the Garden was all hills and drops and winding 
roads between low-growing brush, and everywhere, as if the creatures of some 
giant planet had dropped them, were those towering rocks, their shapes scooped 
out and chiseled and hollowed and twisted by wind, water, and sand. Yes, it was 
lovely, and it was non-instrusive. Just what he said — a good place to drive and 
think. 
Once he came to the top of a hill, and stopped the car, and we looked out over 
the Garden, spreading out in every direction, with the moonlight shadowed in the 
sagebrush, and gleaming off the great rocks. Then we turned and looked at each 
other, and he reached out for me and kissed me again; after which he pulled away 
as if the touch of me hurt him, and grabbed hold of the wheel with a savage look 
on his face, and raced the motor, and raised a cloud of dust on the road behind 
us. 
I didn't understand, and I felt hurt. I wanted to stop again. I wanted to be 
kissed again. I didn't like sitting alone on my side of the seat, with that 
growl in his throat not quite coming out. 
I asked him to stop again. He shook his head, and made believe to smile. 
"I'll buy you a book," he said. "All about the birds and the bees and a little 
thing we have around here we call sex. I'll buy it tomorrow, and you can read it 
— you do know how to read, don't you? — and then we'll take another ride, and we 
can park if you want to. Not tonight, baby." 
"But I know . . ." I started, and then had sense enough to stop. I knew about 
sex; but what I knew about it didn't connect with kissing or parking the car, or 
sitting close . . . and it occurred to me that maybe it did, and maybe there was 
a lot I didn't know that wasn't on Television, and wasn't on the Ship's 
reference tapes either. Morals and mores, and nuances of behavior. So I shut up, 
and let him take me back to the hotel again, to my own car. 
He leaned past me to open the door on my side, but he couldn't quite make it, 
and I had my fourth kiss. Then he let go again, and almost pushed me out of the 
car; but when I started to close the door behind me, he called out, "Tomorrow 
night?" 
"I . . . all right," I said. "Yes. Tomorrow night." 
"Can I pick you up?" 
There was no reason not to this time. The first time I wouldn't tell him where I 
lived, because I knew I'd have to change places, and I didn't know where yet. I 
told him the name of the motel, and where it was. 
"Six o'clock," he said. 
"All right." 
"Good night." 
"Good night." 
I don't remember driving back to my room. I think I slept on the bed that night, 
without ever stopping to determine whether it was comfortable or not. And when I 
woke up in the morning, and looked out the window at a white-coated landscape, 
the miracle of snow (which I had never seen before; not many planets have as 
much water vapor in their atmospheres as Earth does) in summer weather seemed 
trivial in comparison to what had happened to me. 
Trivial, but beautiful. I was afraid it would be very cold, but it wasn't. 
I had gathered, from the weather-talk in the place where I ate breakfast, that 
in this mountain-country (it was considered to be very high altitude there), 
snow at night and hot sun in the afternoon was not infrequent in the month of 
April, though it was unusual for May. 
It was beautiful to look at, and nice to walk on, but it began melting as soon 
as the sun was properly up, and then it looked awful. The red dirt there is 
pretty, and so is the snow, but when they began merging into each other in 
patches and muddy spots, it was downright ugly. 
Not that I cared. I ate oatmeal and drank milk and nibbled at a piece of toast, 
and tried to plan my activities for the day. To the library first, and take back 
the book they'd lent me. Book . . . all right then, get a book on sex. But that 
was foolish; I knew all about sex. At least I knew . . . what did I know? I knew 
their manner of reproduction, and ... 
Just why, at that time and place, I should have let it come through to me, I 
don't know. I'd managed to stay in a golden daze from the time in the Garden 
till that moment, refusing to think through the implications of what Larry said. 

Sex. Sex is mating and reproduction. Dating and dancing and kissing are parts of 
the courtship procedure. And the television shows all stop with kissing, because 
the mating itself is taboo. Very simple. Also very taboo. 
Of course, they didn't say I couldn't .They never said anything about it at all. 
It was just obvious. It wouldn't even work. We were different, after all. 
Oh, technically, biologically, of course, we were probably cross-fertile, but 
... 
The whole thing was so obviously impossible! 
They should have warned me. I'd never have let it go this far, if I'd known. 
Sex. Mating. Marriage. Tribal rites. Rituals and rigmaroles, and stay here 
forever. Never go back. 
Never go back? 
There was an instant's sheer terror, and then the comforting knowledge that they 
wouldn't let me do that. I had to go back. 
Baby on a spaceship? 
Well, I was a baby on a spaceship, but that was different. How different? I was 
older. I wasn't born there. Getting born is complicated. Oxygen, gravity, things 
like that. You can't raise a human baby on a spaceship . . . Human? What's 
human? What am I? Never mind the labels. It would be my baby ... 
I didn't want a baby. I just wanted Larry to hold me close to him and kiss me. 
I drove downtown and on the way to the library I passed a bookstore, so I 
stopped and went in there instead. That was better I could buy what I wanted, 
and not have to ask permission to take it out, and if there was more than one, I 
could have all I wanted. 
I asked the man for books about sex. He looked so startled, I realized the taboo 
must apply on the verbal level too. 
I didn't care. He showed me where the books were, and that's all that mattered. 
"Non-fiction here," he said. "That what you wanted, Miss?" 
Non-fiction. Definitely. I thanked him, and picked out half a dozen different 
books. One was a survey of sexual behavior and morals; another was a manual of 
techniques; one was on the psychology of sex, and there was another about 
abnormal sex, and one on physiology, and just to play safe, considering the 
state of my own ignorance, one that announced itself as giving a "clear simple 
explanation of the facts of life for adolescents." 
I took them all to the counter, and paid for them, and the man still looked 
startled, but he took the money. He insisted on wrapping them up, though, before 
I could leave. 
The next part of this is really Larry's story, but unable as I am, even now, to 
be certain about his unspoken thoughts, I can only tell it as I experienced it. 
I didn't do anything all that day, except wade through the books I'd bought, 
piece-meal, reading a few pages here and a chapter there. The more I read, the 
more confused I got. Each writer contradicted all the others, except in regard 
to the few basic biological facts that I already knew. The only real addition to 
my factual knowledge was the information in the manual of technique about 
contraception — and that was rather shocking, even while it was tempting. 
The mechanical contrivances these people made use of were foolish, of course, 
and typical of the stage of culture they are going through. If I wanted to 
prevent conception, while engaging in an act of sexual intercourse, I could do 
so, of course, but ... 
The shock to the glandular system wouldn't be too severe; it was the 
psychological repercussions I was thinking about. The idea of pursuing a course 
of action whose sole motivation was the procreative urge, and simultaneously to 
decide s an act of will to refuse to procreate ... 
I could do it, theoretically, but in practice new I never would. 
I put the book down and went outside in the afternoon sunshine. The motel was 
run by a young married couple, and I watched the woman come out and put her baby 
in the playpen. She was laughing and talking to it; she looked happy; so did the 
baby. 
But I wouldn't be. Not even if they let me. I couldn't live here and bring up a 
child — children? —on this primitive, almost barbaric, world. Never ever be able 
fully to communicate with anyone. Never, ever, be entirely honest with anyone. 
Then I remembered what it was like to be in Larry's arms, and wondered what kind 
of communication I could want that might surpass that. Then I went inside and 
took a shower and began to dress for the evening. 
It was too early to get dressed. I was ready too soon. I went out and got in the 
car, and pulled out onto the highway and started driving. I was halfway up the 
mountain before I knew where I was going, and then I doubled my speed. 
I was scared. I ran away. 
There was still some snow on the mountain top. Down below, it would be warm yet, 
but up there it was cold. The big empty house was full of dust and chill and I 
brought fear in with me. I wished I had known where I was going when I left my 
room; I wanted my coat. I wanted something to read while I waited. I remembered 
the library book and almost went back. Instead, I went to the dark room in back 
that had once been somebody's kitchen, and opened the cupboard and found the 
projector and yelled for help. 
I didn't know where they were, how far away, whether cruising or landed 
somewhere, or how long it would take. All I could be sure of was that they 
couldn't come till after dark, full dark, and that would be, on the mountain 
top, at least another four hours. 
There was a big round black stove in a front room, that looked as if it could 
burn wood safely. I went out and gathered up everything I could find nearby that 
looked to be combustible, and started a fire, and began to feel better. I beat 
the dust off a big soft chair, and pulled it over close to the stove, and curled 
up in it, warm and drowsy and knowing that help was on the way. 
I fell asleep, and I was in the car with Larry again, in front of that hotel, 
every cell of my body tinglingly awake, and I woke up, and moved the chair 
farther back away from the fire, and watched the sun set through the window — 
till I fell asleep again, and dreamed again, and when I woke, the sun was gone, 
but the mountain top was brightly lit. I had forgotten about the moon. 
I tried to remember what time it rose and when it set, but all I knew was it had 
shone as bright last night in the Garden of the Gods. 
I walked around, and went outside, and got more wood, and when it was hot in the 
room again, I fell asleep, and Larry's hands were on my shoulders, but he wasn't 
kissing me. 
He was shouting at me. He sounded furious, but I couldn't feel any anger. "You 
God-damn little idiot!" he shouted. "What in the name of all that's holy? . . 
.put you over my knee and ... For God's sake, baby," he stopped shouting, "what 
did you pull a dumb trick like this for?" 
"I was scared. I didn't even plan to do it. I just did." 
"Scared? My God, I should think you would be! Now listen, babe. I don't know yet 
what's going on, and I don't think I'm going to like it when I find out. I don't 
like it already that you told me a pack of lies last night. Just the same, God 
help me, I don't think it's what it sounds like. But I'm the only one who 
doesn't. Now you better give it to me straight, because they've got half the 
security personnel of this entire area out hunting for you, and nobody else is 
going to care much what the truth is. My God, on top of everything else, you had 
to run away! Now, give out, kid, and make it good. This one has got to stick." 
I didn't understand a lot of what he said. I started trying to explain, but he 
wouldn't listen. He wanted something else, and I didn't know what. 
Finally, he made me understand. 
He'd almost believed my story the night before. Almost, but there was a detail 
somewhere that bothered him. He couldn't remember it at first; it kept nudging 
around the edge of his mind, but he didn't know what it was. He forgot about it 
for a while. Then, in the Garden, I made my second big mistake. (He didn't 
explain all of this then; he just accused, and I didn't understand this part 
completely until later.) I wanted him to park the car. 
Any girl on Earth, no matter how sheltered, how inexperienced, would have known 
better than that. As he saw it, he had to decide whether I was just so carried 
away by the night and the mood and the moment that I didn't care — or whether my 
apparent innocence was a pose all along. 
When we separated in front of the hotel that night, we both had to take the same 
road for a while. Larry was driving right behind me for a good three miles, 
before I turned off at the motel. And that was when he realized what the detail 
was that had been bothering him: my car. 
The first time he saw me, I was driving a different make and model, with 
Massachusetts plates on it. He was sure of that, because he had copied it down 
when he left the luncheonette, the first time we met. 
Larry had never told me very clearly about the kind of work he did. I knew it 
was something more or less "classified," having to do with aircraft — jet planes 
or experimental rockets, or something like that. And I knew, without his telling 
me, that the work — not just the job, but the work he did at it —was more 
important to him than anything else ever had been. More important, certainly, 
than he had ever expected any woman to be. 
So, naturally, when he met me that day, and knew he wanted to see me again, but 
couldn't get my address or any other identifying information out of me, he had 
copied down the license number of my car, and turned it in, with my name, to the 
Security Officer on the Project. A man who has spent almost every waking moment 
from the age of nine planning and preparing to fit himself for a role in 
humanity's first big fling into space doesn't endanger his security status by 
risking involuntary contamination from an attractive girl. The little aircraft 
plant on the fringes of town was actually a top-secret key division in the 
Satellite project, and if you worked there, you took precautions. 
The second time I met him at the luncheonette, he had been waiting so long, and 
had so nearly given up any hope of my coming, that he was no longer watching the 
road or the door when I finally got there — and when he left, he was so pleased 
at having gotten a dinner date with me, that he didn't notice much of anything 
at all. Not except out of the corner of one eye, and with only the slightest 
edge of subconscious recognition: just enough so that some niggling detail that 
was out-of-place kept bothering him thereafter; and just enough so that he made 
a point of stopping in the Security Office again that afternoon to add my new 
motel address to the information he'd given them the day before. 
The three-mile drive in back of my Colorado plates was just about long enough, 
finally, to make the discrepancy register consciously. 
Larry went home and spent a bad night. His feelings toward me, as I could hardly 
understand at the time, were a great deal stronger, or at least more clearly 
defined, than mine about him. But since he was more certain just what it was he 
wanted, and less certain what I did, every time he tried to fit my attitude in 
the car into the rest of what he knew, he'd come up with a different answer, and 
nine answers out of ten were angry and suspicious and agonizing. 
"Now look, babe," he said, "you've got to see this. I trusted you; really, all 
the time, I did trust you. But I didn't trust me. By the time I went to work 
this morning, I was half-nuts. I didn't know what to think, that's all. And I 
finally sold myself on the idea that if you were what you said you were, nobody 
would get hurt, and — well, if you weren't on the level, I better find out, 
quick. You see that?" 
"Yes," I said. 
"Okay. So I told them about the license plates, and about — the other stuff." 
What other stuff?" What else was there? How stupid could I be? 
"I mean, the — in the car. The way you — Listen, kid," he said, his face grim 
and demanding again. "It's still just as true as it was then. I still don't 
know. They called me this evening, and said when they got around to the motel to 
question you, you'd skipped out. They also said that Massachusetts car was 
stolen. And there were a couple of other things they'd picked up that they 
wouldn't tell me, but they've got half the National Guard and all the Boy Scouts 
out after you by now. They wanted me to tell them anything I could think of that 
might help them find this place. I couldn't think of anything while I was 
talking to them. Right afterwards, I remembered plenty of things — which roads 
you were familiar with, and what you'd seen before and what you hadn't, stuff 
like that, so —" 
"So you —?" 
"So I came out myself. I wanted to find you first. Listen, babe, I love you. 
Maybe I'm a sucker, and maybe I'm nuts, and maybe I-don't-know-what. But I 
figured maybe I could find out more, and easier on you, than they could. And 
honey, it better be good, because I don't think I've got what it would take to 
turn you in, and now I've found you –" 
He let it go there, but that was plenty. He was willing to listen. He wanted to 
believe in me, because he wanted me. And finding me in the house I'd described, 
where I'd said it was, had him half-convinced. But I still had to explain those 
Massachusetts plates. And I couldn't. 
I was psychologically incapable of telling him another lie, now, when I knew I 
would never see him again, that this was the last time I could ever possibly be 
close to him in any way. I couldn't estrange myself by lying. 
And I was also psychologically incapable – I found out –of telling the truth. 
They'd seen to that. 
It was the first time I'd ever hated them. The first time, I suppose, that I 
fully realized my position with them. 
I could not tell the truth, and I would not tell a lie; all I could do was 
explain this, and hope he would believe me. I could explain, too, that I was no 
spy, no enemy; that those who had prevented me from telling what I wanted to 
tell were no menace to his government or his people. 
He believed me. 
It was just that simple. He believed me, because I suppose he knew, without 
knowing how he knew it, that it was truth. Humans are not incapable of 
communication; they are simply unaware of it. 
I told him, also, that they were coming for me, that I had called them, and – 
regretfully – that he had better leave before they came. 
"You said they weren't enemies or criminals. You were telling the truth, weren't 
you?" 
"Yes, I was. They won't harm you. But they might . . ." I couldn't say it. I 
didn't know the words when I tried to say it. Might take you away with them ... 
with us . . . 
"Might what?" 
"Might . . . oh, I don't know!" 
Now he was suspicious again. "All right," he said. "I'll leave. You come with 
me." 
It was just that simple. Go back with him. Let them come and not find me. What 
could they do? Their own rules would keep them from hunting for me. They 
couldn't come down among the people of Earth. Go back. Stop running. 
We got into his car, and he turned around and smiled at me again, like the other 
time. 
I smiled back, seeing him through a shiny kind of mist which must have been 
tears. I reached for him, and he reached for me at the same time. 
When we let go, he tried to start the car, and it wouldn't work. Of course. I'd 
forgotten till then. I started laughing and crying at the same time in a sort of 
a crazy way, and took him back inside and showed him the projector. They'd 
forgotten to give me any commands about not doing that, I guess. Or they thought 
it wouldn't matter. 
It did matter. Larry looked it over, and puzzled over it a little, and fooled 
around, and asked me some questions. I didn't have much technical knowledge, but 
I knew what it did, and he figured out the way it did it. Nothing with an 
electro-magnetic motor was going to work while that thing was turned on, not 
within a mile or so in any direction. And there wasn't any way to turn it off. 
It was a homing beam, and it was on to stay – foolproof. 
That was when he looked at me, and said slowly, "You got here three days ago, 
didn't you, babe?" 
I nodded. 
"There was – God-damn it, it's too foolish! There was a –a flying saucer story 
in the paper that day. Somebody saw it land on a hilltop somewhere. Some 
crackpot. Some . . . how about it, kid?" 
I couldn't say yes and I couldn't say no, and I did the only thing that was 
left, which was to get hysterical. In a big way. 
He had to calm me down, of course. And I found out why the television shows stop 
with the kiss. The rest is very private and personal. 
 
Author's note: This story was dictated to me by a five-year-old boy – 
word-for-word, except for a few editorial changes of my own. He is a very 
charming and bright youngster who plays with my own five-year-old daughter. One 
day he wandered into my office, and watched me typing for a while, then asked 
what I was doing. I answered (somewhat irritably, because the children are 
supposed to stay out of the room when I'm working) that I was trying to write a 
story. 
"What kind of a story?" 
"A grown-up story." 
"But what kind?" 
"A science-fiction story." The next thing I was going to do was to call my 
daughter, and ask her to take her company back to the playroom. I had my mouth 
open, but I never got a syllable out. Teddy was talking. 
"I don't know where they got the car," he said. "They made three or four stops 
before the last . . . "He had a funny look on his face, and his eyes were 
glazed-looking. 
I had seen some experimental work with hypnosis and post-hypnotic performance. 
After the first couple of sentences, I led Teddy into the living room, and 
switched on the tape-recorder. I left it on as long as he kept talking. I had to 
change tapes once, and missed a few more sentences. When he was done, I asked 
him, with the tape still running, where he had heard that story. 
"What story?" he asked. He looked perfectly normal again. "The story you just 
told me." 
He was obviously puzzled. 
"The science-fiction story," I said. 
"I don't know where they got the car," he began; his face was set and his eyes 
were blank. 
I kept the tape running, and picked up the parts I'd missed before. Then I sent 
Teddy off to the playroom, and played back the tape, and thought for a while. 
There was a little more, besides what you've read. Parts of it were confused, 
with some strange words mixed in, and with sentences half-completed, and a 
feeling of ambivalence or censorship or inhibition of some kind preventing much 
clarity. Other parts were quite clear. Of these, the only section I have omitted 
so far that seems to me to belong in the story is this one:— 
The baby will have to be born on Earth! They have decided that themselves. And 
for the first time, I am glad that they cannot communicate with me as perfectly 
as they do among themselves. I can think some things they do not know about. 
We are not coming back. I do not think that I will like it on Earth for very 
long, and I do not know — neither does Larry —what will happen to us when the 
Security people find us, and we cannot answer their questions. But—
I am a woman now, and I love like a woman. Larry will not be their pet; so I 
cannot be. I am not sure that I am fit to be what Larry thinks of as a "human 
being." He says I must learn to be "my own master." I am not at all sure I could 
do this, if it were necessary, but fortunately, this is one of Larry's areas of 
semantic confusion. The feminine of master is mistress, which has various 
meanings. 
Also, there is the distinct possibility, from what Larry says, that we will not, 
either of us, be allowed even as much liberty as we have here. 
There is also the matter of gratitude. They brought me up, took care of me, 
taught me, loved me, gave me a way of life, and a knowledge of myself, 
infinitely richer than I could ever have had on Earth. Perhaps they even saved 
my life, healing me when I was quite possibly beyond the power of Earthly 
medical science to save. But against all this—
They caused the damage to start with. It was their force-field that wrecked the 
car and killed my parents. They have paid for it; they are paying for it yet. 
They will continue to pay, for more years than make sense in terms of a human 
lifetime. They will continue to wander from planet to planet and system to 
system, because they have broken their own law, and now may never go home. 
But I can. 
I am a woman, and Larry is a man. We will go home and have our baby. And perhaps 
the baby will be the means of our freedom, some day. If we cannot speak to save 
ourselves, he may some day be able to speak for us. 
I do not think the blocks they set in us will penetrate my womb as my own 
thoughts, I hope, already have. 
Author's note: Before writing this story – as a story – I talked with Teddy's 
parents. I approached them cautiously. His mother is a big woman, and a 
brunette. His father is a friendly fat redhead. I already knew that neither of 
them reads science-fiction. The word is not likely to be mentioned in their 
household. 
They moved to town about three years ago. Nobody here knew them before that, but 
there are rumors that Teddy is adopted. They did not volunteer any confirmation 
of that information when I talked to them, and they did not pick up on any of 
the leads I offered about his recitation. 
Teddy himself is small and fair-haired. He takes after his paternal grandmother, 
his mother says . . .