"Then I'm moving in. And so is my wife. What do you want me to do?"
Greg said, "Hannigan and I were planning to break ground for a small
farm this afternoon, but this is more important. We'll go down with you
and help you move up your personal things. How about--" he hesitated
briefly "--how about Crystal? And Breadon?"
"I don't know," said J. Foster unhappily. "But if they're smart,
they'll quit kicking against the pricks, too."
They were smart. When Andrews and his son, accompanied by Hannigan,
Tommy and Greg, appeared at the skiff to move the Andrews' property,
when Andrews told them bluntly that he and Enid and Bert were casting
their lot in with the cave-dwellers, there was a moment of sultry
silence, fraught with reluctance, anger, recrimination--then Breadon
bowed to the inevitable. Not with good grace, but with grudging
agreement he said, "Very well. If that's the way you want it, Mr.
Andrews. If we're welcome up there, Malcolm--?"
Greg said, "You are welcome, Breadon. I told you that a week ago."
And promptly forgot Breadon and Breadon's surliness as he realized
that Crystal, too, had been shamed into a recollection of her feminine
duty to herself. Somewhere she had found cosmetics, and somehow she
had managed to clean and press out a fawn-colored desert sun-suit.
Once again, ash-blonde hair combed back to a shoulder-length veil of
shimmering loveliness, pale golden skin fresh and creamy and fragrant
beneath the sheer silk of her abbreviated costume, she was the
glamorous, crystal-lovely Crystal of more leisured days. A woman at
once lovely, challenging and--desirable.
Thus the nation divided against itself was united. And thus began the
second phase of the refugees' struggle to exist against staggering odds
on the lonely, hostile moon of Saturn.