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allowed it.
The only light came from the illuminated dials that the guard was supposed to watch all night There
was no one sitting in front of them. Crawford assumed the guard had gone to sleep. He would have been
upset, but there was no time. He had to suit up, and he welcomed the chance to sneak out He began to
furtively don his pressure suit.
As a historian, he felt he could not let such a moment slip by unobserved. Silly, but there it was. He
had to be out there, watch it with his own eyes. It didn't matter if he never lived to tell about it, he must
record it.
Someone sat up beside him. He froze, but it was too late. She rubbed her eyes and peered into the
darkness.
"Matt?" she yawned. "What's. . . what is it? Is something-"
"Shh. I'm going out. Go back to sleep. Song?"
"Um hmmm." She stretched, dug her knuckles fiercely into her eyes, and smoothed her hair back
from her face. She was dressed in a loose-fitting bottoms of a ship suit, a gray piece of dirty cloth that
badly needed washing, as did all their clothes. For a moment, as he watched her shadow stretch and
stand up, be wasn't interested in the Burroughs. He forced his mind away from her.
"I'm going with you," she whispered.
"All right. Don't wake the others."
Standing just outside the airlock was Mary Lang. She turned as they came out, and did not seem
surprised.
"Were you the one on duty?" Crawford asked her.
"Yeah. I broke my own rule. But so did you two. Consider yourselves on report." She laughed and
beckoned them over to her. They linked arms and stood staring up at the sky.
"How much longer?" Song asked, after some time had passed.
"Just a few minutes. Hold tight." Crawford looked over to Lang and thought he saw tears, but he
couldn't be sure in the dark.
There was a tiny new star, brighter than all the rest, brighter than Phobos. It hurt to took at it but
none of them looked away. It was the fusion drive of the Edgar Rice Burroughs, heading sunward, away
from the long winter on Mars. It stayed on for long minutes, then sputtered and was lost. Though it was
warm in the dome, Crawford was shivering. It was ten minutes before any of them felt like facing the
barracks.
They crowded into the airlock, carefully not looking at each other's faces as they waited for the
automatic machinery. The inner door opened and Lang pushed forward and right back into the airlock.
Crawford had a glimpse of Ralston and Lucy McKillian; then Mary shut the door.
"Some people have no poetry in their souls," Mary said.
"Or too much," Song giggled.
"You people want to take a walk around the dome with me? Maybe we could discuss ways of giving
people a little privacy."
The inner lock door was pulled open, and there was McKillian, squinting into the bare bulb that
lighted the lock while she held her shirt in front of her with one hand.
"Come on in," she said, stepping back. "We might as well talk about this." They entered, and
McKillian turned on the light and sat down on her mattress. Ralston was blinking, nervously tucked into
his pile of blankets. Since the day of the blowout he never seemed to be warm enough.
Having called for a discussion, McKillian proceeded to clam up. Song and Crawford sat on their
bunks, and eventually as the silence stretched tighter, they all found themselves looking to Lang.
She started stripping out of her suit. "Well, I guess that takes care of that. So glad to hear all your
comments. Lucy, if you were expecting some sort of reprimand, forget it. We'll take steps first thing in the
morning to provide some sort of privacy for that, but, no matter what we'll all be pretty close in the years
to come. I think we should all relax. Any objections?" She was half out of her suit when she paused to
scan them for comments. There were none. She stripped to her skin and reached for the light.
"In a way it's about time," she said, tossing her clothes in a corner. "The only thing to do with these
clothes is burn them. We'll all smell better for it. Song, you take the watch." She flicked out the lights and
reclined heavily on her mattress.
There was much rustling and squirming for the next few minutes as they got out of their clothes. Song
brushed against Crawford in the dark and they murmured apologies. Then they all bedded down in their
own bunks. It was several tense, miserable hours before anyone got to sleep.
The week following the departure of the Burroughs was one of hysterical overreaction by the New
Amsterdamites. The atmosphere was forced and false; an eat-drink-and-be-merry feeling pervaded
everything they did.
They built a separate shelter inside the dome, not really talking aloud about what it was for. But it did
not lack for use. Productive work suffered as the five of them frantically ran through all the possible
permutations of three women and two men. Animosities developed, flourished for a few hours, and
dissolved in tearful reconciliations. Three ganged up on two, two on one, one declared war on all the
other four. Ralston and Song announced an engagement, which lasted ten hours. Crawford nearly came
to blows with Lang, aided by McKillian. McKillian renounced men forever and had a brief, tempestuous
affair with Song. Then Song discovered McKillian with Ralston, and Crawford caught her on the
rebound, only to be thrown over for Ralston.
Mary Lang let it work itself out, only interfering when it got violent. She herself was not immune to
the frenzy but managed to stay aloof from most of it. She went to the shelter with whoever asked her,
trying not to play favorites, and gently tried to prod them back to work. As she told McKillian toward
the first of the week, "At least we're getting to know one another."
Things did settle down, as Lang had known they would. They entered their second week alone in
virtually the same position they had started: no romantic entanglements firmly established. But they knew
each other a lot better, were relaxed in the close company of each other, and were supported by a new
framework of interlocking
friendships. They were much closer to being a team. Rivalries never died out completely, but they no
longer dominated the colony. Lang worked them harder than ever, making up for the lost time.
Crawford missed most of the interesting work, being more suited for the semiskilled manual labor
that never seemed to be finished. So he and Lang had to learn about the new discoveries at the nightly
briefings in the shelter. He remembered nothing about any animal life being discovered, and so when he
saw something crawling through the whirligig garden, he dropped everything and started over to it
At the edge of the garden he stopped, remembering the order from Lang to stay out unless collecting
samples. He watched the thing-bug? turtle? for a moment, satisfied himself that it wouldn't get too far
away at its creeping pace, and hurried off to find Song.
"You've got to name it after me," he said as they hurried back to the garden. "That's my right, isn't it,
as the discoverer?"
"Sure," Song said, peering along his pointed finger. "Just show me the damn thing and I'll immortalize
you."
The thing was twenty centimeters long, almost round, and dome-shaped. It had a hard shell on top.
"I don't know quite what to do with it," Song admitted. "If it's the only one, I don't dare dissect it, and
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