Without closing his eyes, Ricardo could see in vivid visual retrospect his red-headed chief, Captain Luders, turning scarlet with exasperation. He had not been allowed to employ a water-purifier simply because the natives hadn’t thought it looked beautiful enough. He could hear Luders storming, in the seclusion of the inner office, “Damned pink, candy-box world! I’m beginning to feel like the little man on a wedding cake. For five credits, I’d....” What Luders would have done for five credits had been both obscene and explicit. But the incident had occurred during the early months, before one of the loveliest _fraislies_ on Lri-gTu-riANa became the captain’s _loofa_. Luders had lost a lot of rough edges in the years since, and had become a great stickler for beauty, naked and unadorned. Ricardo was brought back to Earth with a thud. Carla was talking about plans for their wedding, talking joyously and excitedly about showers and luncheons and bridesmaids costumes. He heard himself say, “Can’t that wait till tomorrow, honey? I’m a little beat.” Instantly he wondered why he’d said it. For five years, he had lived with the constant, gloriously sustaining thought of marrying Carla the moment he got back to Earth. It had been like the proverbial bottle of whiskey at the end of the ditch. He had even feared that she might turn faithless, or be swept off her feet by another man. He had inwardly denied himself full, and traditionally customary satisfaction with his own _loofa_, preserving a tiny part of himself for her alone. They had thought him a cold fish on Lri-gTu-riANa, because of Carla. Yet here he was, putting off the very thing he’d held himself aloof for. Aloof-a _loofa_. As he undressed for the night, he wondered if space-cafard hadn’t got him. Certainly his behavior and feelings had not been wholly rational. Quite the reverse.... When he awoke the next morning, the sun--Earth’s sun, _his_ sun--was shining low and bright in the east. Birds--Earth-birds--were singing their morning songs and a faint, wonderful aroma of coffee came through the window from the kitchen wing of the house. All the confusion, all the uncertainty, all the self-doubt of the night before had been washed away. Ricardo stretched lazily, then rose and shuffled across the carpet to look out the window. He actually cried out with horror at what he saw. It seemed like nightmare, but--it wasn’t at all. The neat lawn and trim poplars were a rich, familiar pink. If it hadn’t been for the green of the hills west of the town, he’d have thought himself still on Lri-gTu-riANa. Dazed, he turned away from the shocking spectacle just as Carla, who had heard him cry out, came into the room. He said, “What’s happened to the trees, to the lawn?” She looked pleased, even a little smug. She said, “Isn’t it simply _crspaltish_, Ricci? We were the very first in town to use chlorodyll on our grass. You know, the stuff that makes the foliage pink on Liguria.”