‘ ”I doubt if you do, really.” Fedoroff turned to confront her. “We expected people would have died when we came home. We expected change. If anything, I was overjoyed at first that I could recognize parts of my city— moonlight on canals and river, domes and towers on Kazan Cathedral, Alexander and Bucephalus rearing over the bridge that carries Nevsky Prospect, the treasures in the Hermitage—” He looked back away and shook his head wearily. “But the life itself. That was too different. Meeting it was like, like seeing a woman one loved become a slut.” He fleered. “Exactly so! I worked in space for five years, as much as I was able, research and development on improving the Bussard engine, as you may remember. My main purpose was to earn the post I have. We can hope for a fresh beginning on Beta Three.”

His words grew barely audible: “Then my mother’s little song reached me. For the last time.” He tilted the bottle to his lips.

Lindgren gave him a minute or two of silence before:

“Now I can see, Boris, in part, why it hurt you so. I’ve studied a bit of sociohistory. In your boyhood, people were less, well, less relaxed. They’d repaired the war damage in most countries and brought population growth and civil disorder under control. Now they were going on to new things, imagination-staggering projects, on Earth as well as in space. Nothing seemed impossible. At the core of their élan was a spirit of hard work, patriotism, dedication. I suppose you had two gods you served with a whole heart. Father Technics and Mother Russia.” Her hand slipped down to lie upon his. “You returned,” she said, “and nobody cared.”

He nodded. Teeth caught at his lower lip.

“Is that why you despise today’s women?” she asked.

He started. “No! Never!”

“Why, then, have none of your liaisons lasted beyond a week or two— mostly a single offwatch at a time?” she challenged him. “Why are you only at ease and merry among men? I believe you don’t care to know our half of the human race except as bodies. You don’t think there’s anything else worth knowing. And what you said a minute ago, about sluts—”

“I came from Delta Pavonis wishing for a true wife,” he answered as if being strangled.

Lindgren sighed. “Boris, mores change. From my viewpoint, you grew up in a period of unreasonable puritanism. But it was a reaction to an earlier easiness that had perhaps gone too far; and earlier yet— No matter.” She chose her words with care. “The fact is, man has never stayed by a single ideal. The mass enthusiasm when you were young gave way to cool, rationalistic classicism. Today that’s being drowned in turn by a kind of neoromanticism. God knows where that will lead. I probably won’t approve. Regardless, new generations grow up. We’ve no right to freeze them into our own mold. The universe is too wide.”