"Which," Joyce interrupted, "might get picked up in a few centuries."
"And make the best of what we've got," Reba went on, unheeding. "If we look at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world. Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there's the resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. By then, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out here we won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies we want."
"You know the law: one child per couple," Joyce reminded her frigidly. "You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Not me."
Junior frowned at his wife. "I believe you're actually glad it happened."
"I could think of worse things," Reba said.
"I like your spunk, Reb," Grampa muttered.
"Speaking of children," Junior said, "where's Four?"
"Here." Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room, carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting a small box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round, raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep.
"Fweep?" it queried hopefully.
"Not now," said Four.