We had cosmic debris, for sure: the flipflopping chaise longue which was in a tight orbit near the peak of the cathedral ceiling; the framed picture of the Viking rocket (could I ever use a little of _its_ thrust now!) fluttering close to the flapping torn part-away of the sunsuit down below the plane of the ecliptic; and the big package Helene had brought. The last suddenly proved to be on a collision orbit with Gladys, curving in then to bump against her derriere. Reaching back swiftly she caught it like an errant salesman's hand. I waited expectantly. "Wonderful!" she commented. "Wonderful!" And pulled out a bottle of Scotch. I watched in fascinated, gleeful anticipation as she unscrewed the cap, and moved the bottle up toward celestial north to reach a normal drinking position. Naturally the contents promptly departed; then splashed against the arch of the ceiling and went into a thousand odd orbits, of which many made moist contact with my own. The perfume-Scotch combination--_yoicks!_ "Glad," I said. "Oh, it's _Glad_ now!" Helene burst. I ignored her. "Glad, get the package in your hands like a basketball--" "Yes, conceal your shame!" Helene cut in acidly. "Will you stop it?" I cried. "Now, Glad, listen, aim it toward my orbit. Lead me a little--there, that ought to do it. Now when I count down to zero give it a shove. Ready? Three, two, one--_zero_!" It was dead on! I looked in the bag, hoping to find a newly charged carbonation unit for the servomech bar. I didn't, but I found something else! "Helene," I said, "I love you!"--and I drew forth the loveliest magnum of champagne you'd ever hope to see. "But, Bill," Helene cried, "that's to celebrate our wedding night!" I appreciated the present tense but said nothing, working on the wire which bound the cork. "Bill, remember what happened to the Scotch," Gladys warned me. I ignored them both, thinking furiously. It _had_ to be Helene! She would sweep to the apogee of her cometlike orbit near the cellar door again in seconds. I shook the magnum as violently as I could. Its cork went whooshing off on a ricochet romance with the Scotch cap. The freed and deeply disturbed champagne blasted off straight for the most remote point in Helene's orbit--and Helene was there! On target! I went whirling backward with the reacting magnum against my chest, bounced against a wall, smacked against the chandelier, flipflopped a few times and found myself orbiting directly below Gladys. I re-oriented myself with some effort and found by twisting my head sharply that I could see the results of the improvised jet blast: Helene, drenched with champagne, stood in gravity on the cellar stairs. "Dear," I ventured, "just go down and ease off on the rheostat; that'll cancel this out gradually and let us down easily." She made a spluttering noise and went downstairs.