"I hope not."
"You must not. You've already had one cold." He stared morosely at the fire. "I suppose I brought it on by my misplaced sense of humor."
"How?"
"Well, you know how we've been subjected to steady kidding ever since it got noised around that we were colonials. I haven't minded much, but some of it rankled. You remember I went into the village by myself last Saturday?"
"Yes. What happened?"
"They started in on me in the barbershop. I let it ride at first, then the worm turned. I started talking about the Moon, sheer double-talk--corny old stuff like the vacuum worms and the petrified air. It was some time before they realized I was ribbing them-and when they did, nobody laughed. Our friend the rustic sanitary engineer was one of the group. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She kissed him. "If I have to tramp through the snow, it will cheer me that you gave them back some of their sass."
The plumber from Norwalk was more helpful, but rain, and then sleet, slowed down the work. They both caught colds. On the ninth miserable day Allan was working at his desk when he heard Jo come in the back door, returning from a shopping trip. He turned back to his work, then presently became aware that she had not come in to say "hello." He went to investigate.
He found her collapsed on a kitchen chair, crying quietly. "Darling," he said urgently, "honey baby, whatever is the matter?"
She looked up. "I didn't bead to led you doe."
"Blow your nose. Then wipe your eyes. What do you mean, 'you didn't mean to let me know'. What happened?"
She let it out, punctuated with her handkerchief. First, the grocer had said he had no cleansing tissues; then, when she pointed to them, had stated that they were "sold". Finally, he had mentioned "bringing outside labor into town and taking the bread out of the mouths of honest folk".
Jo had blown up and had rehashed the incident of Allan and the barbershop wits. The grocer had simply grown more stiff. "'Lady,' he said to me, 'I don't know whether you and your husband have been to the Moon or not, and I don't care. I don't take much stock in such things. In any case, I don't need your trade.' Oh, Allan, I'm so unhappy."
"Not as unhappy as he's going to be! Where's my hat?"
"Allan! You're not leaving this house. I won't have you fighting."
"I won't have him bullying you."
"He won't again. Oh my dear, I've tried so hard, but I can't stay here any longer. It's not just the villagers; it's the cold and the cockroaches and always having, a runny nose. I'm tired out and my feet hurt all the time." She started to cry again.
"There, there! We'll leave, honey. We'll go to Florida. I'll finish my book while you lie in the sun."
"Oh, I don't want to go to Florida. I want to go home."
"Huh? You mean-back to Luna City?"
"Yes. Oh, dearest, I know you don't want to, but I can't stand it any longer. It's not just the dirt and the cold and the comic-strip plumbing-it's not being understood. It wasn't any better in New York. These groundhogs don't know anything."
He grinned at her. "Keep sending, kid; I'm on your frequency."
"Allan!"
He nodded. "I found out I was a Loony at heart quite a while ago-but I was afraid to tell you. My feet hurt, too- and I'm damn sick of being treated like a freak. I've tried to be tolerant, but I can't stand groundhogs. I miss the folks in dear old Luna. They're civilized."
She nodded. "I guess it's prejudice, but I feel the same way."
"It's not prejudice. Let's be honest. What does it take to get to Lana City?"
"A ticket."
"Smarty pants. I don't mean as a tourist; I mean to get a job there. You know the answer: Intelligence. It costs a lot to send a man to the Moon and more to keep him there. To pay off, he has to be worth a lot. High I.Q., good compatibility index, superior education-everything that makes a person pleasant and easy and interesting to have around. We've been spoiled; the ordinary human cussedness that groundhogs take for granted, we now find intolerable, because Loonies are different. The fact that Luna City is the most comfortable environment man ever built for himself is beside the point-it's the people who count. Let's go home."
He went to the telephone-an old-fashioned, speech-only rig-and called the Foundation's New York office. While he was waiting, truncheon-like "receiver" to his ear, she said, "Suppose they won't have us?"
"That's what worries me." They knew that the Lunar companies rarely rehired personnel who had once quit; the physical examination was reputed to be much harder the second time.
"Hello... hello. Foundation? May I speak to the recruiting office?... hello-I can't turn on my view plate; this instrument is a hangover from the dark ages. This is Allan MacRae, physical chemist, contract number 1340729. And my wife, Josephine MacRae, 1340730. We want to sign up again. I said we wanted to sign up again... okay, I'll wait."
"Pray, darling, pray!"
"I'm praying- How's that! My appointment's still vacant? Fine, fine! How about my wife?" He listened with a worried look; Jo held her breath. Then he cupped the speaker. "Hey, Jo-your job's filled. They want to know if you'll take an interim job as a junior accountant?"
"Tell 'em 'yes!'"
"That'll be fine. When can we take our exams? That's fine, thanks. Good-by." He hung up and turned to his wife. "Physical and psycho as soon as we like; professional exams waived."
"What are we waiting for?"
"Nothing." He dialed the Norwalk Copter Service. "Can you run us into Manhattan? Well, good grief, don't you have radar? All right, all right, g'by!" He snorted. "Cabs all grounded by the weather. I'll call New York and try to get a modern cab."
Ninety minutes later they landed on top of Harriman Tower.
The psychologist was very cordial. "Might as well get this over before you have your chests thumped. Sit down. Tell me about yourselves." He drew them out, nodding from time to time. "I see. Did you ever get the plumbing repaired?"
"Well, it was being fixed."
"I can sympathize with your foot trouble, Mrs. MacRae; my arches always bother me here. That's your real reason, isn't it?"
"Oh, no!"
"Now, Mrs. MacRae-"
"Really it's not---truly. I want people to talk to who know what I mean. All that's really wrong with me is that I'm homesick for my own sort. I want to go home-and I've got to have this job to get there. - I'll steady down, I know I will."
The doctor looked grave. "How about you, Mr. MacRae?"
"Well-it's about the same story. I've been trying to write a book, but I can't work. I'm homesick. I want to go back."
Feldman suddenly smiled. "It won't be too difficult."
"You mean we're in? If we pass the physical?"
"Never mind the physical-your discharge examinations are recent enough. Of course you'll have to go out to Arizona for reconditioning and quarantine. You're probably wondering why it seems so easy when it is supposed to be so hard. It's really simple: We don't want people lured back by the high pay. We do want people who will be happy and as permanent as possible-in short, we want people who think of Luna City as 'home.' Now that you're 'Moonstruck,' we want you back." He stood up and shoved out his hand.
Back in the Commodore that night, Jo was struck by a thought. "Allan-do you suppose we could get our own apartment back?"
"Why, I don't know. We could send old lady Stone a radio."
"Call her up instead, Allan. We can afford it."
"All right! I will!"
It took about ten minutes to get the circuit through. Miss Stone's face looked a trifle less grim when she recognized them.
"Miss Stone, we're coming home!"
There was the usual three-second lag, then-"Yes, I know. It came over the tape about twenty minutes ago."
"Oh. Say, Miss Stone, is our old apartment vacant?" They waited.
"I've held it; I knew you'd come back-after a bit. Welcome home, Loonies."