“I know,” Ricardo said grimly. “The best part of it is that it won’t turn green again,” she told him proudly. “And it doesn’t spread, so no one can use it who hasn’t paid for it.” “Praise Allah for small blessings,” said Ricardo, appalled. “What’s that?” Carla wanted to know. “Oh, nothing,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Now almost everybody has chlorodyll grass,” the girl went on. “Out West, in farming districts, the big owners hire aircars to dust the prairies. In a few years, the whole world will be pink.” Ricardo thought despairingly of the green hills of Earth, for which he had longed for so many years. He thought of the dark tropical forests, of the mosses of the Arctic tundra, of the great grasslands of Africa, Asia and South America. All pink, passionate cake-frosting pink! Or soon to be. He closed his eyes. Carla kept on talking. “And tonight, they’re having a ball in our honor at the country club. It’s going to be just like a _shlastric_ festival and some of the girls say they’re going to be real _loofas_. It’s becoming quite the thing. But mother and I don’t think it’s exactly proper unless they’re married. I want you to see my costume, right after breakfast, to be sure it’s a hundred per cent authentic.” * * * * * He opened his eyes. He said, “Beat it, honey, will you? I want to take a shower and get dressed.” He didn’t shower at once. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, being careful to assume an angle that forbade his seeing the pink foliage outside. He thought of the young people of Earth, ardently pursuing Ligurian customs, turning the planet into an imitation of Lri-gTu-riANa. He thought of girls like Carla turning _loofa_. At least, on Lri-gTu-riANa, it was the real thing. He packed his bag and got dressed and walked through the French window, across the pink grass to the street. He hailed a passing vehicle and was given a lift to the skyport. There, he caught an aircab north to the spaceport. The interstellar official looked at him curiously as he reported. He was a man of native curiosity, which was why he held the job he did. It was a job where questions were important. He said, “You’re sure you want to go back for a ten-year hitch. Not that we aren’t glad to have an old Liguria-hand back. But you haven’t given yourself much time here on Earth. Your girl run out on you?” “No,” Ricardo didn’t want to waste time talking. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was aboard the big gleaming starship awaiting its payload at the end of the ramp outside. “Just say, I think I’m better suited to life on Lri-gTu-riANa after five years there.” “Sure you don’t want a little more time to adjust. It’s a big decision. And ten years is--” “Ten years is the longest hitch I can sign for,” said Ricardo. “I intend to stay on Lri-gTu-riANa for life.” “Well, we’re not going to stop you,” said the official. “Care for a spot of _praglian_? One for the road?”