Carrolson had pointed out the social roster located near the main door. "There are thirty women here on the science team, and sixty men. Two married couples, four committeds—"

"Five," Patricia had added.

"And six married but spouses back on Earth. I'm one of those. That means slim pickings for the single men. But committed or not, you're fair game if you put your name on the roster. There's an old saying that has to be bent a bit here: 'Don't dip your pen in the office ink.' Since office ink is all there is, some pen dipping is inevitable. But nobody has to take abuse." Carrolson glanced at Polk and Wallace. "Right, girls?"

"Paradise," Polk said flatly, looking up from her slate and widening her eyes. "Better than university."

"Any trouble," Carrolson said, "and you just tell me. I'm senior female here, in age at least."

"I'll do fine," Patricia had replied.

She had never been a social butterfly, tending to fall hard and fast—and usually without reciprocation. Still, with Paul to think of, that was the least of her concerns here. Although—and she smiled in the darkness—Lanier was a pretty fellow. So worried, though.

Patricia wondered if she would look just as worried when she had the whole picture.

Without knowing she had slept, she heard the chiming alarm on her comline. Beside her bed, a pleasant amber light switched on with the signal. She blinked at the bare, off-white walls and had no trouble remembering where she was. She felt right at home, in fact, and a little excited. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed.

Patricia had never been adventurous. Hiking and camping had not been missing from her life, but she had never felt inclined toward outdoor activities other than bicycling. Every six to eight months, she became an avid bicyclist, spending two hours each day riding around the campus. The urge would pass after several weeks and her sedentary habits would return.

There had always been too much to do in her mind or on paper. The mindwork could be done almost anywhere, but not while climbing precarious trails or being dead tired after a long march.

But here. . .

Sometime in the night, she had made the Stone her meat and drink. She was familiar with the feeling, having approached math problems with similar zeal. She was exhilarated, her pulse was up and she colored like a young girl.

When Lanier knocked, she had dressed and combed her hair. She opened the door with eyes wide.

Carrolson stood behind him. "Breakfast?" Lanier asked. Wearing the standard zipper-and-button blue jumpsuit of the science team, she looked more practical, he thought.

The clear pale light of the plasma tube never varied and cast only the vaguest of shadows beneath their feet as they walked. The cafeteria, adjacent to an experimental agricultural station, was feeding breakfast to the 1500–2400 shift. "Night" for Patricia had been from six in the "morning" to two in the "afternoon." Lanier said he slept irregularly; Carrolson was just finishing her shift.