Ah, missed on this go-round, but it was close. Gladys' smile told me she was paying no heed to the buzzing visio at all. The sun-chandelier--I could reach it! I caught at one of its sunburst's rays. It promptly snapped off, but the action had changed my orbit. Changed it--and how! Now I was in precisely the same orbit as Gladys and gaining! She smiled back over her nicely rounded shoulder. It wasn't fair! I hadn't heard a sound outside, what with the visio buzzing away like mad, but the front door was suddenly opened and there was Helene starting to come in, a big package in her arms. "Stay out!" I cried. "Don't come in, Helene!" I was a split second too late; her foot hit the null-grav area and she was suddenly orbiting, her package tumbling off on a trajectory of its own, her pocketbook a satellite beside her. Helene was startled, certainly, but not beyond speech. "Bill Wright," she cried, "you're a beast! You bring me home on our wedding night and leave me for your silly machine and without a single solitary drop to drink in the servomech and I go out for something and come back to find you flying after that blonde hussy!" She swept up around the chandelier, her orbit grazing it at perihelion but apparently destined to be far remote at aphelion. "But, dear--" I started. "Don't dear me!" she cried, and went out of my range of vision just as I overtook Gladys and her outflung arms caught me painfully by the neck. Which is when Helene's orbit mercifully turned out to be a collision orbit with Gladys'--and she took Gladys away from me like a super-Nike taking out a stratojet-bomber. They bounced against the ceiling. Gladys took the impact. Rearward. Fortunately Mother Nature had been kind. Helene bounced away from Gladys. Strands of blonde hair went with her. "Dark roots!" Helene cried triumphantly. Gladys said a bad word. I conjectured. "Say," I said, but the girls were shouting. I yelled, "Hey!" They quieted but kept glaring balefully at each other and circled like a couple of female wrestlers waiting--but wholly unable--to pounce. "We're in a pickle," I started. "_You're_ in a pickle," Helene corrected me. "Oh, stop it!" I said. "I didn't start it," Helene said. Logic! "Now, look," I said, "we've got to get down. If one of us could only manage to grasp something that's fastened--the carpet, a window, a doorknob--" I didn't finish; it was too painfully obvious that none of our orbits took us that close to the finite boundaries of my null-grav living room. Helene's, I noticed, was the closest. A germ of an idea came into my mind as I observed that Helene's handbag was still in a tight orbit around her. "Honey," I said. She raged at that and made futile fluttering motions as though she thought she just might be able to fly. Perhaps formality was indicated. "Mrs. Wright," I tried.