“Thanks, dear!” she called out. “Let’s climb in.”

He had either undressed or caused his own clothes to go away—probably the former she decided; Mike found buying clothes for himself without interest. He still could see no possible reason for clothes other than for simple protection against the elements, a weakness he did not share. They got into the tub facing each other; she scooped up a handful of water, touched it to her lips, offered it to him. It was not necessary to speak, nor was the ritual necessary; it simply pleased Jill to remind them both of something for which no reminder could ever be necessary, through all eternity.

When he raised his head, she said, “The thing I was thinking of while you were driving was how funny that horrid sheriff looked in his skin.”

“Did he look funny?”

“Oh, very funny indeed! It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. But I did not want us noticed.”

“Explain to me why he was funny. I do not see the joke.”

“Uh . . . dear, I don’t think I can explain it. It was not a joke—not like puns and things like that which can be explained.”

“I did not grok that he was funny,” Mike said seriously. “In both those men—the judge and the lawman—I grokked wrongness. Had I not known that it would displease you, I would have sent them both away.”

“Dear Mike.” She touched his cheek. “Good Mike. Believe me, dearest, it was better far to do only what you did do. Neither one of them will ever live it down—and I’ll bet that there won’t be another attempt to arrest anyone for indecent exposure in that township for another fifty years. Let’s talk about something else. I have been wanting to say that I am sorry, truly sorry, that your act didn’t go over. I did my best in writing the patter for it, dear—but I guess I’m no showman, either.”

“It was my lack, Jill. Tim speaks rightly—I don’t grok the chumps. Nevertheless it has been good to be with Baxter’s Combined Shows . . . I have grokked closer to the chumps each day.”

“Only we must not call them chumps any longer, nor marks, now that we are no longer with it. Just people—not ‘chumps.’”

“I grok that they are chumps.”

“Yes, dear. But it isn’t polite to say so.”

“I will remember.”

“Have you decided where we are going now?”

“No. When the time comes, I will know.”

“Yes, dear.” Jill reflected that Mike always did know. From his first change from docility to dominance he had grown steadily in strength and sureness—in all ways. The boy (he had seemed like a boy then) who had found it tiring to hold an ash tray in the air, could now not only hold her in the air (and it did feel like “floating on clouds”; that was why she had written it into the patter that way) while doing several other things and continuing to talk, but also could exert any other strength he needed—she recalled one very rainy lot where one of the trucks had bogged down. Twenty men were crowded around it, trying to get it free—Mike had added his shoulder . . . and the truck moved.

She had seen how it had happened; the sunken hind wheel had simply lifted itself out of the mud. But Mike, much more sophisticated now, had not allowed anyone to guess.

She recalled, too, when he had at last grokked that the injunction about “wrongness” being necessary before he could make things go away applied only to living, grokking things—her dress did not have to have “wrongness” for him to toss it away. The injunction was merely a precaution in the training of nestlings; an adult was free to do as he grokked.

She wondered what his next major change would be? But she did not worry about it; Mike was good and wise. All she could teach him were little details of how to live among humans—while learning much more from him, in perfect happiness, greater happiness than she had known since her father died. “Mike, wouldn’t it be nice to have Dorcas and Anne and Miriam all here in the tub, too? And Father Jubal and the boys and—oh, our whole family!”

“It would take a bigger tub.”

“Who minds a little crowding? But Jubal’s pool would do nicely. When are we making another visit home, Mike? Jubal asks me every time I talk to him.”

“I grok it will be soon.”

“Martian ‘soon’? Or Earth ‘soon’? Never mind, darling, I know it will be when the waiting is filled. But that reminds me that Aunt Patty will be here soon and I do mean Earth ‘soon.’ Wash me off?”

She stood up, he stayed where he was. The soap lifted out of the soap dish, traveled all over her, replaced itself, and the soapy layer slathered into bubbles of lather. “Oooh! That’s enough. You tickle.”