She cast a quick sidelong glance at Rolf. He stood almost directly behind the second bride, a lean, sun-bronzed figure towering over the other guests, a sensually suggestive smile on his lips which was anything but reassuring. He winked as he returned her glance. Even less reassuring was her certain knowledge that Rolf was drunk. The monthly, multiple marriages on Mars accompanied as they were by the prospects of incipient parentage and immediate long separation, had degenerated into one big farewell carnival. This one, as far as Lynne was concerned, had begun three Martian days earlier when the settlers of the Barkutburg station--the residence of Lao, Revere and, until recently, of Lynne--had thrown a thirty-six hour wingding for the departing bride. Lynne had attended, of course, out of devotion to her twin and his wife. But since her neuro-emotional makeup was too fine-tuned to enable her to enjoy alcohol in quantity, she had been something of a spectre at the feast. The journey to New Samarkand had been a brief interlude between binges, followed by another revel on the eve of the official wedding. This time, Rolf had been on hand and, under his prompting, Lynne had taken a little too much and was suffering the inevitable after-effects. Rolf, apparently, was just getting up a full head of steam. She wondered if the travesty of a ceremony was ever going to end. “... and so I now pronounce you men and wives,” the marrying officer finally finished. Ushers hastily escorted the couples and their attendants to a vestry, where the record books were signed, while another group of brides, grooms and attendants, came forward to be joined in wedlock. _Ceremony_, Lynne thought, _by courtesy only_. Travesty would have been a far more accurate term. She glanced at Rolf again as he signed his name with a flourish in the book, wondering what _her_ wedding would be like--if she ever married. At the moment, the idea was thoroughly repugnant to her. “Come on, _vinral_,” said Rolf, using the Martian term of endearment as he gathered her in with his huge left hand. “Sign here--and then over here, in this book. _Crehut_, I thought old Bretinslov would never finish that blah-blah of his.” Signing dutifully, Lynne said, “That blah-blah, as you call it, legalizes the serious vows of a marriage ceremony.” It seemed a little incredible to her that she should find herself defending a ritual which she had decried mentally only moments before. But Rolf’s attitude somehow infuriated her. Rolf, whose eyes seemed pinker and foggier than usual, ran his tongue between his teeth and said, “Come on, _vinral_, my mouth is drier than desert dust. Let’s get over to the reception room and kiss the brides and get a drink. They’re serving some of the new champagne-lichenwasser the bio lab has synthesized, to its everlasting credit and glory.”