thirty two degrees Celsuis and 58 percent humidity with ambiant radiation levels at a reasonable 500 rem, the Olde Earth readings made Morehouse 1-2 bristle. Needlessly he checked and re-checked the readings before sending them back to headquarters. Nearby Morehouse 3-4 was singing. Tres as he liked to call her had been downloading ancient human folk songs. He wished Calvin had not given her permission for such foolishness. A little quirkiness among the Grays is overlooked by the humans but a full range of feelings well that was just asking for trouble. But if he told Tres anything she sulked and recharged in the main chamber instead of their private quarters. Right now Tres was belting out a dreadful melody she called W.A.P. Morehouse 1-2 rolled away.

Calvin had dropped them off in the Olde City section in what had once been Philadelphia. The artifacts had long been looted for rich men’s private collections and the museums of New Earth and Mars. Something was wrong with him, Morehouse 1-2 thought. His world had become drab, a faded vid. Even the colors of his dreams were no longer pleasing. Tres had hinted all getting.a full dianostic and he snapped at her. Morehouse 1-2 admitted to himself and only to himself that she was right. He followed his sensors for the presence of chlorophyll. Nothing, it was always nothing.

Days of nothing, stretched behind him. Morehouse 1-2 felt a racing sensation beneath his skin. He wondered if the reclamation project would be cancelled for lack of results. What if his Tres was taken from him? What if they were reassigned to new masters on new worlds? Tres always reminded him of how nice and honorable Calvin was. Bitterness blazed over his circuits at the thought of their happiness being dependent on someone else’s whim. Morehouse 1-2 kicked a cobblestone smashing it to dust.

A shower of fungi whacked the back of his head. Tres, in spider mode, was pretending to examine spores a rusted lamppost. Lightweight and chamelonlike, she was a newer model. Today her skin was a silky dark gray with freckles beneath her sensors. With a sudden burst of speed, Morehouse 1-2 crossed the distance between them catching her in his heavy arms.

“Uno, according to protocol, Morehouse units are to remain in their separate designations during exploration for maximum—“ Tres said.

He cut off her teasing with a firm kiss. During their New York wasteland exploration, Morehouse 3-4 had found a postcard of a thin mother with two small children hanging from her. Sitting in pride of place in their quarters, the tiny photo brings Morehouse 1-2 great joy. Tres was his tree of life and he was losing her for fear of losing her. Morehouse 1-2 swung her with ease before burying his head against her neck.

“I knew you felt it too. Today is the today, Uno. We will find viable plant speciems. I just know it,” Tres said as she cupped his cheek. “Now stop worrying, my love, or next time I’ll throw a volkwagon.”

Tres gave him a playful swat and returned to her Market Street designation. Enjoying her confident swagger, Morehouse 1-2 watched her walk away. Morehouse 1-2 still didn’t believe in the mission but he believed his mate knew what was good for him. He also didn’t want to have to pick chunks of volkswagon out of back again. Heading towards the silthy river, Morehouse hummed folk songs as he scanned for signs of green life.