I made a quick survey for a possible safe touchdown area just in case Helene inadvertently cut the power too fast; chances were good that we'd hit one of the several sofas. Gladys and I were celestially north of the chitchat bench when Helene completely killed the null-grav. The bench, with visio, suffered complete collapse; it wasn't meant for sitting down on from twelve feet up. Especially with a blonde dropping immediately into one's lap. Lucky for me both were nicely padded. "I'm sorry, Bill," Gladys said, _September Morn_-ing, and hurrying, dishevelled and forlorn, out the front door. I heard her car start up as Helene came up from the basement. I ruefully surveyed the shattered visio amid the other debris. "Null-grav," I said. "Real null-grav. Jim's got to know--but the visio's ruined. I've got to go out and call him." "Oh, no, you don't!" Helene burst. "Null-grav _and_ Jim O'Brien can wait until tomorrow!" She kissed me tenderly then. "How right you are," I said, getting re-oriented fast. * * * * * Now you must excuse me; I've got to degravitize the living room. They're due here for training in a few minutes--the Satellite One Cadets. I worked out a keyer that remotely controls the null-grav's rheostat; it's calibrated to permit creating any sub-gravitational effect from one G down to null-G. Those boys are really getting trained. Someday I'll duplicate the null-grav over at the Project--Jim O'Brien and I have nearly got the circuitry licked--and we'll have the living room all to ourselves. Jim and his blushing bride--Gladys--come over almost every evening after the Cadets are through. We play null-grav polo, orbital chess and some other games we've adapted. Our favorite, though, is "Pick Your Planet" where we take turns imitating the orbit of one of Sol's planets, planetoids, moons or visiting comets, and pantomiming other clues. Funny, but most often Helene or Gladys chooses Venus. With them, poor cold old Pluto's out. Women are funny that way.