One evening the scientific staff was giving itself a concert--a tri-di hi-fi rendition of _Rigoletto_, one of the greatest of the ancient operas, sung by the finest voices Terra had ever known. The men wore tuxedos. The girls, instead of wearing the nondescript, non-provocative garments prescribed by the Board for their general wear, were all dressed to kill. Sandra had so arranged matters that she and Hilton were sitting in chairs side by side, with Sandra on his right and the aisle on his left. Nevertheless, Temple Bells sat at his left, cross-legged on a cushion on the floor--somewhat to the detriment of her gold-lame evening gown. Not that she cared. When those wonderful voices swung into the immortal _Quartette_ Temple caught her breath, slid her cushion still closer to Hilton's chair, and leaned shoulder and head against him. He put his left hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently; she caught it and held it in both of hers. And at the _Quartette's_ tremendous climax she, scarcely trying to stifle a sob, pulled his hand down and hugged it fiercely, the heel of his hand pressing hard against her half-bare, firm, warm breast. And the next morning, early, Sandra hunted Temple up and said: "You made a horrible spectacle of yourself last night." * * * * * "Do you think so? I don't." "I certainly do. It was bad enough before, letting everybody else aboard know that all he has to do is push you over. But it was an awful blunder to let _him_ know it, the way you did last night." "You think so? He's one of the keenest, most intelligent men who ever lived. He has known that from the very first." "Oh." This "oh" was a very caustic one. "_That's_ the way you're trying to land him? By getting yourself pregnant?" "Uh-uh." Temple stretched; lazily, luxuriously. "Not only it isn't, but it wouldn't work. He's unusually decent and extremely idealistic, the same as I am. So just one intimacy would blow everything higher than up. He knows it. I know it. We each know that the other knows it. So I'll still be a virgin when we're married." "_Married!_ Does he know anything about _that_?" "I suppose so. He must have thought of it. But what difference does it make whether he has, yet, or not? But to get back to what makes him tick the way he does. In his geometry--which is far from being simple Euclid, my dear--a geodesic right line is not only the shortest distance between any two given points, but is the only possible course. So that's the way I'm playing it. What I hope he doesn't know ... but he probably does ... is that he could take any other woman he might want, just as easily. And that includes you, my pet." "It certainly does _not_!" Sandra flared. "I wouldn't have him as a gift!"