“_Crehut!_” had been Rana’s reply. “You remind me of the Indian chief who said to the mermaid in the old Earth-joke: ‘_I did exercises_.’” Then, growing serious, she had explained the process--a well conceived combination of TP and yoga, practiced at regular intervals, that had thus far assured the child’s safety. Later, noting the detached look in Lynne’s eye, Rolf had protested, “If you think for a moment, _vinral_, that you’re going to put me through what poor Tony’s enduring, you’re out of your mind.” “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about that,” Lynne had affirmed, “_after_ Rana’s baby is born.” “_If_ Rana’s baby is born,” had been Rolf’s tormented comment. But the baby had been born, and was thriving. Now Lynne was carrying the second Mars-child, with only two weeks to go unless Dr. Smetana was grievously mistaken. She had found the “exercises” which enabled her to protect the child curiously restful--once she had mastered the task of attaining close rapport between her body’s precious new burden and the universe around her. Despite the awkwardness of advanced pregnancy, she felt strangely at peace with herself and the infinite. Even Rolf’s enforced absence didn’t matter too much--though she longed to have him with her. She moved through her daily work at the Depot--the task of seeking new telepathic relays which would detect the existence of other, alien intellects in the cosmos--almost as if it were being done by a complete stranger. She finished her second cola-fizz, glanced at her wristwatch and rose, a trifle clumsily, even though the light gravity of Mars made the weight within her comparatively light. “Well, chilluns,” she said, “it’s time for this little mother-to-be to go home and commune with nature.” Tony was about to ask her a question, when a choking wail from the bedroom sent him flying. “Honestly--_men!_” exclaimed Rana. “They’re such idiots about babies!” III Late the following morning, in accordance with her pre-maternity schedule, Lynne paid her daily visit to Dr. Smetana’s office. It adjoined the gray-walled infirmary in the southeast corner of the low, sprawling complex of semi-cylindrical buildings that was Nampura Depot--literally the brain-center of Mars. The doctor was a stocky, square-jawed man with unexpectedly light-blue eyes and a deceptive appearance of ill-health, thanks to the refusal of his skin to acquire the usual Martian sunburn. He put her through the usual run of tests and shook his head. “I’ll be _zwirched_,” he said, “if I can figure out how you manage it, Lynne. According to everything we’ve learned about women on this ghastly, wonderful planet you should have lost your child four months ago. Yet everything still looks one hundred percent.” “If I’m such a freak, what about Rana Willis?” said Lynne, who was beginning to tire of the “miracle” aspects of her pregnancy.