His name was Thad. He was holding two culture plates which he had just carried up from the Mars lab. He intended to set the plates down on a rack at the end of the room. But when he saw her, he stopped. Her new lab coat was spotless white, and she had pinned a stiff white square of cloth around her head to cover her hair. The way she stood, only the shoulders and collar of her coat showed; the folds of the headcloth draped so that the coat and cloth framed her face with the suggestion of a robed and cowled young nun. She was not pretty. But the serenity of her fresh-skinned cheek, emphasized by the furrows of concentration on her brow, gave her so much the look of the eternal virgin that he could not, at first, do anything but stand and stare. He had seen her before, of course: in the cafeteria, several times; on the Mall; at a party the week before; in the projection room, yesterday. It was a month, at least, since she came up. They had been introduced at the party, and again yesterday, watching some films. He could not have seen her less than fifteen-twenty times, altogether. And each time he had noted, without interest, only that she was new, quiet, plain-looking; and of course goggle-eyed and stumble-footed, like all newcomers. Now he wondered how he could possibly have thought her _plain_; or why, when they met, he had registered only her name, Rita Donovan, and her background--a _summa cum_ type from Johns Hopkins. He had not been concerned enough to learn if she were married or single, or otherwise unattached. It might have been half a minute that he stood watching her. Then he walked on and set his culture plates down. Neither his stillness nor his action penetrated the distant focus of her concentration. He walked around back of her counter, and noticed she had damn good legs, too. “Something good?” he asked. She started, and looked up. “_Good?_” She laughed. “Every time I see these things--They’re just _fantastic_!” “Right out of this world,” he reminded her, smiling. “Oh, of course.” She flushed faintly and her laugh held a note of embarrassment. “I guess I’ll get used to it too. Some day. But--” “Not very damn likely you won’t, if you’re working up here,” he said. “Not at the rate _these_ babies are going. We get to where it all seems almost normal, downstairs--every once in a while, that is. Then somebody comes up with something like Hendrickson’s idea on controlled evolution, and you know you haven’t even scratched the surface yet!” “Have you seen his films?” she asked eagerly.