The women replacements had disappeared into their compound and were seen no more. He wondered at the type of indoctrination they were getting. Did it include an item concerning the use of _loving hands_? Strangely, the men made no reference to the women, and he was reluctant to draw attention by broaching the subject. The living quarters, mess-hall and recreation spaces were grouped intimately, but placed in such a manner that windows and entries allowed no casual glimpses of the women from the men's areas. Complete security in the matter of segregation appeared to be guaranteed on the honor system alone. All 140 men slept in one long bunk-room, all 20 women in another. Intelligent men are not easily bored, but Peter Duncan discovered a certain restlessness developing among the new men during the fourth month. There was a tendency to break off in the middle of a chess game, or to speak tersely. Duncan ascribed this to a phase of adjustment, because the second term crew seemed better tempered. Then it began to bother _him_. He found himself developing an unreasoning impatience. He began using profanity at slight annoyances. The stiff soreness of chest, neck and back muscles became chronic, and he began laying awake listening to his own rapid breathing, begrudging every inhalation of his overworked lungs. The devil with expense! Why didn't they at least pressurize the sleeping quarters so a man could get some decent rest? He recognized the symptoms of increasing irritability in himself as it distracted him even during his work. But he couldn't put his finger on the cause. It grew worse. During the twelfth month he reached a stage of exasperation that almost cost him his life. He was tightening a bolt on one of the spindles. The second time his wrench slipped off the nut he squared away and threw the spanner at the horizon. Too late he saw his crew-mate, geologist Magnus Porter. Horrified he watched the wrench arc three times as far as it would have on earth, and strike Porter in the face. He went down. When Duncan reached him the scientist's face was gushing blood, and his smashed mask hissed its charge into the sterile air. Fortunately, they were on the camp side of the pits, only two hundred yards from sickbay. Porter weighed no more than a blanket roll, and the odds seemed good at first. But before Duncan had bounded half the distance his lungs pumped to the bursting point. His vision dimmed, and his legs faltered. He tore off his mask, pressed it to Porter's face, gulped a chest full of dead air and screamed for help. * * * * * Red streaks of pain tore through his head, down his neck muscles and into his chest. The slightest breathing movements racked his lungs, but, incredibly, they sucked in rich, sweet oxygen, heavy and dense. He knew he must be in a compression tank. The whispering pump and muffled sound of voices outside were evidence enough, although he couldn't open his eyes.