Pink Grass Planet by Sam Merwin Jr. _In offering this delightful new Sam Merwin story to you we may be inviting just about the worst disaster that could befall an editor of a science-fantasy magazine. For, given man’s eternal restlessness and his all-too-frequent subservience to fads and fancies, the tragedy so vividly depicted here may someday come true. Then we’ll be accused of being an accessory before the fact, and suffer the harsh fate of prophets everywhere. A dire risk, truly!_ =A man may grieve his heart out for a paradise left behind. But five short years of human folly may make that world a nightmare.= The starship landed at night. When Ricardo Webb stepped out on the ramp, the first thing he did was take a deep breath of the sharp, strange-familiar air of Earth. When he exhaled, in the glow of the fluorescent field-lamps, he could see a little cloud of vapor emerge and dissipate quickly against the brisk November night. He told himself he would never curse a terrestrial winter again. After five years in the tepid showerbath air of Lri-gTu-riANa, he even looked forward to shoveling snow. This was Earth, this was home--and it felt good to be back. Better than good, in fact. He stared about him, searching for a warmth and a radiance that would make his happiness complete. Then Carla spun out of the whirling group of reporters, officials and just plain people who had come to meet the starship, and flung herself into his arms. “Ricci, darling!” She whispered, twisting her pretty face so that her lips met his almost vertically. He thought, _I’ll have to do something about that_. He held her supple softness off at arm’s length and said, “Do I know you?” “Idiot!” She laughed and kissed him again. “Come on,” she said. “Mother’s cooking a turkey, and dad can’t wait to ask you about fishing on Liguria.” Lri-gTu-riANa--Liguria. The contraction simplified the name for Earth-tongues, but it sounded odd to Ricardo. He hoped not too many of the once-familiar place names of Earth would sound odd to his ears. He wanted to forget about Lri-gTu-riANa for awhile, and rejoice in the incredible bright wonder of his homecoming. He said: “They use needle-rays instead of dry flies on--Liguria. It’s not the same.” “Idiot!” she said again, affectionately. “_I_ don’t give a _fringo_ how they catch fish on Liguria--that’s for dad. I’m just glad you’re back.” She hugged his elbow. “I’ve got an aircar waiting.” _Fringo!_ He wondered where Carla had picked that one up. It was a Lri-gTu-riANan expression, not entirely decent by accepted terrestrial standards. But no one who had not been to Lri-gTu-riANa would know. He wondered if he’d ever get used to calling the planet of his exile Liguria.