It'd be hours before I could try visioing her. Mom's way up in Connecticut, quite a hop even by jetliner. I sat on the chitchat bench, felt sorry for myself for a second and then got concentrating on the starchart on the ceiling above the sun-chandelier and decided that if man was to start exploring upward I'd better continue my exploring downstairs. But I couldn't concentrate. I fiddled around rewiring the psionic machine just to have something to do. The front door banged again with the loveliest, most satisfying solid bang--and I dropped my soldering iron on a printed circuit and something went _whoosh_ which wasn't just me going up the stairs. Simultaneously a feminine scream came to meet me. * * * * * I went up the stairs but when I got to the top I didn't--couldn't--stop. I kept going up, making climbing motions and touching nothing at all until my head ricocheted off the curving ceiling and I bounced down upon my contour chair. I didn't stop there but bounced right back up again, vaguely aware that the recoiling chair was slowly following me. During this time I was seeing considerably more stars than you'd see from Palomar on a good clear night. The stars began to blink out of focus, and me in. And then, in the midst of marveling over the undeniable fact that I'd discovered--well, what about Roentgen?--_discovered_ anti- or at least _null_-gravity, I remembered (a) the door slamming and (b) the scream. I bounced off the ceiling, cartwheeled a bit, glanced off a picture of a Viking rocket on the wall which took off on a trajectory of its own, and then spun in my orbit and got a look at the blonde. Now, anyone under normal conditions would have taken a good look at the blonde. I was, however, performing what is known in aeronautics as a barrel-roll, and my viewing of the blonde was the sweeping scan of a surveillance radar. Not that I hadn't seen the blonde before. I knew her well. Her name is Gladys. She's the most gorgeously put-together creature at the Sands. Most of the boys would ride bareback on a Nike if she gave them the smile she was giving me then. Gladys was in a gentle orbit as nearly circular as that of Venus. Her primary was the sun-chandelier. I thought then of another Venus. Only Gladys has arms. Her arms were bare. In fact, a lot of Gladys was bare and there's a lot of Gladys, all nicely proportioned, of course. The sunsuit's designer had indubitably been inspired by a Bikini. I bounced off a sofa, which absorbed some of my inertia, and through some frictional freak stopped my axial rotation. I went then into an elliptical orbit grazing the chitchat bench at aphelion and the chandelier at perihelion. The thought of Helene crossed my mind in a peculiarly guilty manner, and I was rather glad at that moment that Gladys and I weren't on a collision orbit.