and nuns.

That night, Sue and I joined the four ship's officers, their wives,
Phillip Benson and Jane in the navigation cupola atop our doomed ship
that had become a "fortress". The small control room was the only
semi-private room in the ship, and even Benson was admitted by
invitation only. The meeting was a council of war, so to speak, and the
officers were pressed into service to organize and operate the security
guard.

When the guard watch was worked out for a week in advance, I spoke up.
"I think we're getting off on the wrong foot, Phil. We can't stay penned
up like animals at night and expect to function as humans."

Benson argued: "We are a carefully balanced group, Sam. We can't afford
casualties. Look at our medical corps, two doctors and four nurses.
Suppose we were attacked and lost them?"

Captain Spooner, whose authority had lapsed when we touched down, backed
up Benson. "I see no great hardship in the precautions. Inconvenience,
yes, but nothing that the danger doesn't fully justify."

He was a cocky, virile, bald-headed little terrier of 35 years. His very
young wife and the wives of the other three officers seemed only lightly
perturbed at the prospects of continuing celibacy, which confirmed my
suspicions.

I said, "That's gritty of you, Captain, but remember, the rest of us
haven't had the relative privacy of the bridge. If this restriction
continues long I predict violations of the discipline, and probably some
serious behaviour problems."

My position as colony psychologist had become somewhat obscured under
the snowstorm of paperwork that my secondary job as official scribe had
brought. Benson seemed now to recall that mental health _was_ my
concern. He said, "I thought you reported high morale upon arrival."

"I did, but the tensions are there, and it's foolish to draw them too
tightly. We have a well-picked, highly adaptable group of people. Let's
keep them that way. The quicker we hit a more normal existence the less
risk we run of emotional disturbances."

"They'll take it," Benson said positively, and Spooner nodded in
arrogant agreement.

* * * * *

My 20-hour wristwatch, geared to the shorter rotation of Sirius XXII,
said nine o'clock, one hour before noon, when the women began
undressing.

There had been an air of conspiracy among them all morning, a studied
casualness as they wandered around near the ship, forming small
conversational eddi