When would it learn what its narrow prejudices were costing? Would it have to wait till someone like Gregrill stepped forward and demonstrated all the richness it was missing?
The formal good-bys had been said. The neighbors had held a party for them. It had been in a clearing behind the houses, out in the clean, lemon-yellow sunlight. They had eaten roasted trork, the crustacean delicacy from the northern gorges, and mrila made into candied patties. Gregrill's mother and father had danced the grave, stately farewell dance. And now, on their final evening on Mars, Joyce and Gregrill were taking their last walk along the deep, echoing gorge.
She had just been watching him finish his packing, and the pain of it still sat in her throat. He had included his college books—every one of his texts and notebooks—packing them in so reverently, so pathetically confident that all he had to do was follow his classroom precepts, and recognition and success would come tumbling into his hands....
"I hope that your parents will like me as well as my parents like you," Gregrill said.
"Oh, yes," Joyce assured him hoarsely.
"Perhaps they will not be pleased that you marry a Martian."
"No, Greg, no. They'll—" But she couldn't carry it on.
He turned to face her; he looked at her hard. He was starting to speak, to ask the obvious questions, but she flung herself against him.
"Greg! Let's get married here! Let's get married before we leave."
He held her away from him so he could look at her. "But you had wished to be married on Earth," he said bewilderedly.