Behind him the holds were gasping open and beginning to disgorge the massive supply cargo that must keep 160 souls alive for 780 terrestrial days. Fragile appearing trucks rumbled out and passed the group. A pair of spindly cranes that could barely have supported their own weight on earth, jounced behind tiny jeep-like tow-cars. Now the sun was below distant low hills. Duncan noted the suddenness of the sunset, and as he looked, Phobos, the nearer moon rose out of the west, a huge crescent like the stage moons on earth. Only 3700 miles from Mars' surface, it would race overhead in the space of minutes. Even in the dark, its progress could be followed by the disk of blackness against the stars. Now the crescent lay horizontal and narrow, but even as he watched, the sliver fattened and separated itself from the low mountain range. The new group was waved into the largest building, through a double entrance of curtains. Inside was air. Everyone was removing his mask. Evidently this was the recreation room. A small stage at one end held a man and ten women. When they were all seated in the rows of chairs, the man on the rostrum arose and spoke. "Fellow PhD's and fatheads, may I welcome you to your new home for the next," he looked at his wrist watch, "781 days, six hours and 18 minutes." He was short, blond, powerfully built and pleasant of face. A rather pale, symmetrical blotch of skin containing his mouth, nose and part of each cheek, was outlined by his heavily sunburned complexion. That would be the shadow of his oxygen mask, Duncan surmised. "My name is Lee Bowen, your newly elected spokesman," he went on. "My chief qualification is the biggest mouth and the loudest voice on Mars. Before you leave you will have two elections in which to vote, but until the next ship comes you'll have to put up with me. And the girls here." He waved forward one of the slack-suited females. Like the others she looked intelligent, but her closely cropped brown hair and loose-fitting clothes almost concealed her sex. Her face was pretty but seemed pale without make-up. "Discretion is the better part of pallor," Duncan punned to himself. "Dr. Martha Rice is spokesman for the ladies." Bowen bowed briefly and stepped back. The girl smiled and looked them over thoughtfully. "We have problems here. I would like to emphasize a couple of them. Please don't cut yourself, shaving or working. The slightest wound in our low atmospheric pressure requires a compress bandage. They are nuisances. A modestly deep gash can cost you your life." She paused and studied them some more. "And so I hope you are all careful or at least thick-skinned. For another reason, too. Our second problem here is the high price of love." The nine girls behind her laughed as she looked back at them, but her face became serious.