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too. What I hope most of all is that, if I can make you understand, I'll understand it all better myself.
    I wish I could tell you even more about us. I wish I could show you the whole picture of my life, of all the details of all our human lives, of who all the people were who were in Danny's that day. The couple at the next table, pretty drunk and getting drunker, gazing into each other's eyes, whispering into each other's ears, unable to keep their hands off each other; the waitress, fretfully punching out her drink tabs by the cashier station because she'd got something screwed up and couldn't figure out where the mistake was; the fourteen or fifteen Muslims sitting together in the smoking section of the bar, who didn't drink but made up for it in hashish, and the way they all together jumped to their feet at prayer time, putting down their little rugs so they could kneel toward Mecca. (Of course, Mecca wasn't exactly to the "east" on the Moon, but they all had their little wrist computers to tell them where on the Earth's surface Mecca would be at any given moment.) I wish I could explain to you why we all drank or doped; for that matter, I wish I could make you understand why that drunken couple found their fumbling explorations of each other so compelling—and why I found being with Alma so—because I know that you don't do anything like that, either.
    I don't think you understand physical sexual attraction at all, you see, any more than you understand the joys of intoxication, or the force of religious belief. Some things that matter mightily to us don't matter to you at all. And that's a pity, because then you can't understand why I did some of the things I did—or, especially, why Rannulf did what he did—without realizing that the way Alma looked mattered to me quite a lot. She was quite a beautiful woman, tall and fair with a long and graceful neck and a rounded but slim body—she looked the way a Moon maiden was supposed to look, although she'd been born and grew up in west Texas until she got tired of the floods. I frequently thought that I loved Alma, and not just for her physique. She was smart, too. I suppose that that part might make sense to you, since I know you respect intelligence. But I would be a liar if I said that her undeniable intelligence was the main attraction for me.
    Human beings very often behave in the rational, sensible ways dictated by their intelligence; but the rational behaviors that our reason would direct are quite often countermanded by the nonrational yearnings of our bodies. You don't have to approve of that. You just have to accept the fact that it's true. Otherwise you can't make any sense of us at all.
     
    Alma listened carefully to every word I had to say about what Matthew said and how Matthew looked, and how I felt about talking to Matthew, filing it all away. I knew why. I had no doubt that in her private thoughts Alma had been considering the possibility of marriage and children with me as much as I had with her. If we'd never spoken about it, it was because we both still had reservations we didn't want to discuss. When she had stored it all, she changed the subject back.
    "The question is," she said, "are we going to let Rannulf throw his life away because of some romantic notion about me?"
    "Is that why he's doing it?" But that was the wrong tack to take; her face clouded. "Well," I said, "it isn't up to me to stop him. Besides, that's not throwing his life away exactly, is it? I mean, Pava's about the best extrasolar colony, because it's got the best star. And a lot of people volunteer for the colonies. It's exciting. I even feel a little bit that way myself; if things were the other way around with us I might be the one who gallantly disappears into the sunset."
    "You wouldn't. Besides, you aren't supposed to. Because of your health," Alma said. I didn't think it was kind of her to remind me of that, although it was certainly more or less true. That was one of the