The way back was tedious—the floating around, the boredom, the unending blackness of space—but at least it was going home. After the first weeks of space-sickness, things returned to near normal, and the Doctors conferred with the Colonel. It was decided that the best report should be that Engraham was uninviting, bleak, and of no interest to Earthmen. The reputations of all were at stake (the doctors found themselves, stripped of their papers, unable to recollect enough, and the Colonel desperately feared a court-martial) and the crew was thus advised. All agreed to keep their mouths shut. Thus their honorable discharges, medals, and life-time pensions would be safe.
So, with all this decided, and Earth only a few months away, relative cheerfulness reigned. Only Willy Lanham continued to mope.
"What's biting you?" Kosalowsky asked, one day as they lay strapped in adjacent bunks. "Your face is as long as this ship."
"I just feel bad," Willy said. "I can feel bad if I want to, can't I?"
"What the hell, we'll soon be home. We can really raise some hell, then."
"I miss my girl," Willy blurted out.
"You'll see her pretty soon."
"I mean my girl on Engraham."
It happened that just then several other men, bored with lying still, were floating past. They gripped the edges of Willy's bunk.
"You mean you had," Kosalowsky said cunningly, "a girl on Engraham?"