Mr. Cherkassov spoke earnestly. "Forgive me if my ignorance of your language causes me to misunderstand, madame. We believe because man now has the ability to cross space he therefore has a _duty_ to all life on Earth to help it reach other planets. Earth is overcrowded with men, not to speak of the wild life that soon must all die. We believe that around other suns we will find Earth-like planets where we can plough and harvest and build homes. I cannot agree that it is silly." Martha flung her head back. "Well, it _is_ silly. Who'll go? All the men who do things will run away to them and then where will we be? Oh no, Mr. Cherkassov, that gets you nowhere!" "Your pardon, madame," a TASS man interrupted. "What kind of men will run away?" "The sour-faced men who fix pipes and TV and make A-bombs and electricity and things." "Oh," said Mr. Cherkassov. He drummed on his briefcase. Then, "Perhaps only Russians will go, madame. You could pass a law. I must confess to you, we might have sent a man to the moon, but we feared the propaganda use your country might make of it." Martha made her parrot mouth. "You should have sent a _man_!" She chomped the last word off short. Paula and Monica nodded vigorously. Mr. Cherkassov stroked his briefcase. "Moondog's mistress wished greatly to go. One might say moondog saved her mistress' life. Is not that a value to you?" Martha stared. "Did you dare think of sending a poor weak _woman_ to the ... to the _moon_?" "Russian women are coarse and strong," Mr. Cherkassov said soothingly. "A large number of them, among the scientists, did volunteer." * * * * * Martha sat bolt upright and made her parrot beak again. Her fat cheeks flushed under the powder. "No!" she snapped. "I see where you're trying to lead me and I won't go! You should have sent the hussy! It is _immoral_ to sacrifice a loving little dog just for a careless whim." Her two aides gazed admiringly at their chieftainess. "Think of it, just for a whim!" Paula echoed. Mr. Cherkassov's fingers traced an aimless, intricate pattern on the briefcase and he crossed his ankles. "All dogs are not loving in the same way, madame. Tell me, how do you know when a dog loves you?" "You just know," Martha said. "Take my little Fiffalo--and I just know he's so miserable now away from me in that dreadful concentration camp and it's all your fault, really, Mr. Cherkassov--when I pet Fiffalo he jumps in my lap and kisses me and just _wiggles_ all over. That's real love!" "Ah ... I perhaps understand. What does he do when you speak sharply to him?" "He lies on his back with his paws waving and looks so sad and pitiful and defenseless that my heart melts and I feel good all over. You just _know_ that's love, when it happens to you." Monica dabbed at a tear. Both TASS men scribbled.