"That," answered Peak, "will be your job. You'll have to think of something that will keep his weight and power constant."
Ha was doing no outer-thinking; Ha was inner-thinking about Earth, and bodies.
Ted Truesdale was sitting on the back porch, supposedly enjoying the sun. He was, in reality, enjoying the view. The blonde who'd bought the house directly behind them, and considerably below them, was out on her patio.
She was enjoying the sun. She wore a skimpy halter and a pair of shorts that were. She was well oiled and lying on her stomach. The tan of her shoulders and along the back of her legs was a fine wheat brown and she was due to turn over.
Ted was not lascivious, though Ann Truesdale had frequently stated he almost was. Ted, to put it honestly, was thirty-nine and worrying about the forties. It didn't seem logical that he would feel any different at forty than he had at thirty-nine. He'd noticed no change between thirty-nine and sixteen; he was a healthy man.
But there were so many stories about the forties—and the fifties followed them so closely.
Now, the blonde was about to turn over. She had one hand, palm downward, on the blanket beneath her and—
And from the doorway, Ann Truesdale said, "Theodore Truesdale, you licentious old man. I never realized why you sat out—"
He turned to face his wife. His voice was a model of outraged innocence. "For heaven's sake, Ann—"