Education of a Martian

By JOSEPH SHALLIT
Illustrated by EMSH
It was for his ideals Joyce loved the alien. But ideals are conditioned reflexes....
Walter Harley glowered across the room at his daughter. He didn't like the willful tone that crept into her voice these days; he didn't like the way her gray eyes spread wide at him, the way her lips tensed, the way she drew herself up, tall and slim, an arch of determination. The darned girl had grown up too fast, that was the trouble.
Joyce faced up to his scowl, shaky as she was. She knew what he was thinking, because he had told her enough times—she was a headstrong girl without a brain cell to her name; her college education had been a waste; worse than that, it had pumped her full of crazy ideas, had knocked her sense of values upside down.
How anybody in their right mind.... he growled at her. Listen, you've already been to Mars. You've seen it. What do you want to go to that miserable, dried-up hole again for?
Because ... because I was happy there, she said tremulously.
What? With those miserable savages? He slapped his euphoria pipe down on the table. Ethel, will you listen to that?
Joyce's mother, plump and round-shouldered and vague-eyed, was deep in her reclining chair, the miniature transviewer on her lap, watching a garden party in Rome.
What is it, dear? she asked unhappily.
This crazy girl wants to take her vacation on Mars again.
Well ... it is educational, Ethel said.