Carla darted into her room and Mr. Baker put an arm across Ricardo’s shoulders and led him to the servabar at one end of the living room. He was a large, hearty man with a booming voice. He said, “It’s good to have you back, son. I think the occasion demands a little liquid refreshment. I picked up a case of _praglian_ yesterday, in honor of your arrival.” _Praglian!_ The thought of its thick, sweetish flavor made him physically ill. There had been a time, during the early portion of his stay on Lri-gTu-riANa, when he had enjoyed drinking the stuff. There had also been a time, before he went to Lri-gTu-riANa, when he would simply have told Mr. Baker he’d rather have whiskey--good straight Earth whiskey, 90 proof. But five years of Lri-gTu-riANan politeness had made such candor impossible. He drank _praglian_, and tried not to make a face. Carla came wandering in, wearing snowy white boots, shorts and bolero jacket. She looked adorable, and she felt adorable as she snuggled close to him and took a sip from his glass. There was just one flaw. Now that she had her hat off, he saw that her naturally auburn hair had been dyed a pale Ligurian green. “Why did you do it, honey?” he asked her, no longer able to obey the inner compulsion toward politeness he had acquired on the alien planet. She thrust a laughing face up at him and said, “Isn’t it _crspaltish_? All the girls are doing it lately. It’s the absolute rage.” Of course, she mispronounced _crspaltish_. But Ricardo didn’t correct her. The less Ligurian he heard, he told himself bitterly, the better he was going to like it. To his surprise, he enjoyed the dinner. Apparently, the _loocoo-sran_ berries had been adulterated to suit terrestrial palates, or else he was so used to the flavor that his own taste had become blunted. At any rate, the radar-cooked turkey was marvelous--crisp and brown on the outside, and unbelievably tender and white within. And the rest of the food was untainted with Ligurian seasonings. He ate until the lastex band of his clout made groves against the skin of his stomach. Satiated, he sat on the living room sofa, his fingers entwined with Carla’s, and wondered why anyone should want to go to Lri-gTu-riANa when Earth was so much better, so much more suited to the race of men. In the dim light, he had to look hard to see that Carla’s hair was Ligurian green. He didn’t strain his eyes. Mrs. Baker, in the rockofit chair, was wearing the _flausmraka_ bolero he had brought her, and Mr. Baker, in his layback seat, was puffing on the tube of the Ligurian _clisra_-pipe Ricardo had dug out of his luggage right after dinner. He hadn’t quite mastered the technique and made faint slurping sounds at regular intervals. “I’m so _glad_ you’re back,” Carla whispered, close to his ear. “It was worth waiting five years for. Or an eternity,” she added, snuggling even closer to him.