Donley and the others were all over them.
How was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still teaching at the university? What was the international situation?
Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there still people who didn't know what an atom was and didn't give a damn?
Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?
Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of them—a husky, red-faced kid named Williams—was opening a box about a foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Klein said. "Hey, guys, look what we've got here!"
Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his hand and laid it on top of the grass.
"I like the feel of it," he said simply.
Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.