He stopped with a twirl, arms spread like the end of a showbiz number. When she stopped laughing, he said, “You’re not working for my parents, are you? Sent all this way to talk me out of this crazy career?”

“Uh, no.”

He slid hands all around her, ignoring her squeals. “Know that.”

A knock at the door. The Base Bioneer’s stern face told them, “We’ve had an infection. Some Marsmat got in, apparently on part of a suit. It’s inside our envelope. Evacuate now—into suits, outside.”

“Damn!” they said together.

The Bioneer suddenly grinned at them. “Getting it on during work hours? Tsk tsk.”

Zuminski ignored her, closed the door, turned to Rachel with a grin. “Let’s find place to make this happen.”

3.

They trooped out with the others as she struggled with the psychic mulch of emotions. Swerving from the Fraq problem to cryptology to, suddenly, Zuminski—she had to keep her equilibrium. The Zuminski issue roamed through the labyrinths of her mind as they formed up in units outside the habitat, watching the cleaning crew do their thing.

She liked men, but didn’t like them by the gross. That had been in the offing here, where men so outnumbered women—but she had planned on keeping to herself. She had avoided long-term men for decades, focused on her career, knowing that there was plenty of time later to marry and bear children, if she wished. Somehow, Zuminski had come in under her guy radar. His soft eyes belied a sinewy toughness, plus a quirky humor like her own.

Time passed while the bio team cleaned Marsmat traces within the habitat. People gossiped, muttered…. A thin breeze howled and dust blew by them all. Nearby a vortex wind formed, swirling and dancing. It was pretty, the apex of Mars weather. Everybody turned to watch. Zuminski touched helmets and said, “We go.”

She blinked, then followed him around the garage and support buildings, to the greenhouse. They cycled inside to find no one there. The habitat air system provided clean, moisturized air at two-thirds Earth sea-level pressure, like living on a mountaintop at 8,000 feet but with plenty of oxygen. They didn’t feel altitude effects, and had lots of energy—but the air tasted flat. Here in the greenhouse, they could work without helmet or gloves.

With just a skin suit on, Rachel shucked her Marswear insulated outer garments. Zuminski threw off his suit and sucked in the flavorful air. “Ah!” They looked past the rows of plants, through the clear side walls to the dusty red landscape beyond. Nobody around. She ambled down the aisles, breathing in the aromas. In this little space, cupped against the soil, was a tiny human garden in all its moist promise. Growing food on Mars was immensely symbolic as well as practical—rice and potatoes, various beans, and popular vegetables like broccoli and tomatoes. These swelled in large hydroponics trays, some using Martian soil for grit. There was something very calming about being surrounded by green leaves and vines, nodding gently in the perpetual, moist updrafts.