It had never occured to Lynne, in her wildest imaginings during the trip out to Callisto, that the little spaceship which had brought them, with its cramped cockpit and utterly inside plumbing, would feel like home. But once she and Rolf were in it together, on their way back to Mars, she curled up beside him in the warmth of the tiny cabin, grateful for the artificial gravity, feeling utterly relaxed, and basked in the warmth of his thoughts toward her. _Still sore at me_, VINRAL_?_ he telepathed. _Of course not, you_ FARBISH _idiot_, she replied silently. He turned her around on the narrow, curving couch, so that she was facing him, in his arms, with her face close to his. She thought, _My husband! Maybe there are more important things than a ceremony._ _You’re so right, my_ VINRAL, came his answering thought. And then, as a flicker of concern crossed his powerful features, _You’re not seriously ill, are you_, VINRAL_?_ MARLET, she reproved him fondly, _I never felt better in my life. Just being alive--and off Callisto!_ _But your face--your arms--they’re all broken out!_ She looked at her arms and it was so. Blisters--ugly, yellowish blisters--seemed to be rising on her skin even as she watched. She felt a thrill of panic that made her shudder. And then, as if waiting for a signal, the itching began. It started on her face, flowed through her arms, through her body, her legs, her feet. _Goldberg’s poisoning! You poor_ ZWIRCHY VINRAL_!_ His thought was clear and alarmed. Somewhere, somehow, on the frozen satellite, she had picked up the virulent vegetable poison. As she stripped and let Rolf daub her all over with antiseptic that gave only momentary and partial relief, an ancient song kept running through her head, a centuries-old lilt that went, _A fine romance, with no kisses--a fine romance, my dear, this is...._ And then she thought, _Poor Goldberg, poor Suzuki, poor...._ Thereafter, until a day before they landed back at Nampura Depot, Lynne was too sick to remember much of anything. The blisters broke and, with them, the fever that had made her delirious. But when they came away they took patches of skin with them, leaving her too miserable to move. Nor was her misery lessened by recollection that it was she who had spoiled the honeymoon on the outward voyage through injured vanity at her provisional husband’s high-handed behavior. As if, when you loved a man, it made any difference _how_ you got married.... Contact with the infinite, with the immensity of the alien intellect, had considerably widened her vision--even while Goldberg’s poisoning had severely limited her sphere of physical action. Revere came to visit her in the infirmary, which she shared with a convalescent Rana, and told her, telepathically, _You know, you and Rolf are both up for E.I.A. gonging. Officially, you violated a security regulation, but since you saved what was left of Callisto Mission, they’re going to slip you a citation under the table._