Dorothy's vacuous smile faded, uncomprehending. "What?"
"No," Sam said, trying to keep his voice even. "I've changed my mind. I'm keeping the engine whether you like it or not."
Dorothy's mouth hung open in surprise, and before she could recover enough to launch a fresh tirade Sam Meecham had walked out, slamming the door behind him. He paused in the cool evening and gazed upward. The government had gone only to the Moon. Sam Meecham was going to the stars!
The next day he was given the silent treatment. It had begun the night before when he returned from his walk. Dorothy was in bed, awake and sniffling over the cruelty inflicted upon her by an unthoughtful husband, and when he came in she turned her back and wouldn't speak. Sam didn't mind that; in fact, it was a welcome relief. But all night long she sniffled into her pillow, trying to win him over.
Sam felt an odd mixture of sympathy and anger. "Oh, shut up," he said finally, and stuck his head under the pillow.
In the morning the treatment continued, but it was not totally silent—for Dorothy's air of hostility was now accompanied by low, sometimes indistinct mumblings.
Suddenly Sam said, "This coffee's cold."
"If you don't like it," Dorothy said, and thrust her face near his, "make some yourself."
Sam half-rose and gripped the table. "Look, my lovely one, I'm the gent who brings home that weekly paycheck you can't get along without. Measly or not, it's good, honest American dough that lets us live a little decently—and the least you could do is give me warm coffee in the morning!"
His voice had risen almost to a shout and Sam himself was surprised at it. Dorothy's eyebrows crept into a bewildered frown, and like one in a trance she moved to turn on the heat beneath the coffee pot.