“And they’ll still sing for us.” She edged her hailu closer to his. Their knees touched. He leaned over and kissed her.

Elva shivered. I’d better go in, she thought.

The light switched on automatically as she re-entered the living room. At least artificial illumination on Chertkoi was like home. Dwelling under different suns had not yet changed human eyes. Though in other respects, man’s colonies had drifted far apart indeed…The apartment had three cramped rooms, which was considered luxurious. When five billion people, more every day, grubbed their living from a planet as bleak as this, even the wealthy must do without things that were the natural right of the poorest Vaynamoan—spaciousness, trees, grass beneath bare feet, your own house and an open sky. Of course, Chertkoi had very sophisticated amusements to offer in exchange, everything from multisensory films to live combats.

Belgoya pattered in from her offside cubicle. Elva wondered if the maidservant ever slept. “Does the mistress wish anything, please?”

“No.” Elva sat down. She ought to be used to the gravity by now, she thought. How long had she been here? A year, more or less. She hadn’t kept track of time, especially when they used an unfamiliar calendar. Denser than Vaynamo, Chertkoi exerted a ten percent greater surface pull; but that wasn’t enough to matter, when you were in good physical condition. Yet she was always tired.

“No, I don’t want anything.” She leaned back on the couch and rubbed her eyes. The haze outside had made them sting.

“A cup of stim, perhaps, if the mistress please?” The girl bowed some more, absurdly doll-like in her uniform.

“No!” Elva shouted. “Go away!”

“I beg your pardon. I am a worm. I implore your magnanimity.” Terrified, the maid crawled backward out of the room on her belly.

Elva lit a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked on Vaynamo, but since coming here she’d taken it up, become a chain-smoker like most Chertkoians who could afford it. You needed something to do with your hands. The servility of clients toward patrons no longer shocked her, but rather made her think of them as faintly slimy. To be sure, one could see the reasons. Belgoya, for instance, could be fired any time and sent back to the street level. Down there were a million eager applicants for her position. Elva forgot her and reached after the teleshow dials. Something must be on, loud and full of action, something to watch, something to do with her evening.

The door opened. Elva turned about, tense with expectation. So Bors was home. And alone. If he’d brought a friend along, she would have had to go into the sleeping cubicle and merely listen. Upper-class Chertkoians didn’t like women intruding on their conversation. But Bors alone meant she would have someone to talk to.

He came in, his tread showing he was also tired. He skimmed his hat into a corner and dropped his cloak on the floor. Belgoya crept forth to pick them up. As he sat down, she was there with a drink and a cigar.