"Null-grav," I said. "Real null-grav. Jim's got to know--but the
visio's ruined. I've got to go out and call him."
"Oh, no, you don't!" Helene burst. "Null-grav _and_ Jim O'Brien can
wait until tomorrow!"
She kissed me tenderly then.
"How right you are," I said, getting re-oriented fast.
* * * * *
Now you must excuse me; I've got to degravitize the living room.
They're due here for training in a few minutes--the Satellite One
Cadets. I worked out a keyer that remotely controls the null-grav's
rheostat; it's calibrated to permit creating any sub-gravitational
effect from one G down to null-G. Those boys are really getting trained.
Someday I'll duplicate the null-grav over at the Project--Jim O'Brien
and I have nearly got the circuitry licked--and we'll have the living
room all to ourselves. Jim and his blushing bride--Gladys--come over
almost every evening after the Cadets are through. We play null-grav
polo, orbital chess and some other games we've adapted. Our favorite,
though, is "Pick Your Planet" where we take turns imitating the orbit
of one of Sol's planets, planetoids, moons or visiting comets, and
pantomiming other clues.
Funny, but most often Helene or Gladys chooses Venus. With them, poor
cold old Pluto's out.
Women are funny that way.