Part 2

She led him back to his room. He turned his back to the bed as though to sit down, but instead he moved to her. She slid into his arms as though it were rehearsed, and he crushed her close to him. Through their light garments he felt her body strain for a brief moment then completely relax. She peeled away from his lips.

"Mister, that will cost you just $10,000. You're on report!"

The shock of her voice was a cold plunge back to another reality. Duncan's hands fell to his sides and he sat down heavily, head bowed. Martha lifted his legs, untwined the sheet and tucked in the blankets. Suddenly she dropped to him and pressed her face to his. "You poor devil! You poor, poor, devil!" Her tears rolled down to his face, and she cried unrestrainedly for more than a minute. Duncan kept his hands at his sides, and it was his greatest triumph of self-control.

* * * * *

He gave himself two days to affect recovery. On the second morning he called for Dr. Martha Rice. She came in alone, her darkly handsome face inscrutable. "You are better, I hear. For exactly how long have you been feeling better?"

Duncan smiled. "Long enough to want to get out of here. How is Magnus Porter?"

"He left an hour ago. He'll wear a bandage for a week, but your mask saved him from anything serious. That was quite a gesture, my boy. As I mentioned the other night, you are on report--"

Duncan winced.

"--for a citation for heroism beyond the call of duty."

"You're quite a girl, yourself," Duncan said. "Where are my pants? I have some ore to get out before the next ship. We mustn't return short of cargo, must we?"

"What do you mean, _we_? You have a term and a half to complete," she said.

"I'm here on a special assignment, and we'll be going out together on the next ship."

"I will, but you--you! What kind of special assignment?"

"Some fuddy-duds down sunward had some foolish ideas about reducing the crew out here by some twenty persons. You know, trying to save money. I'm to report upon your dispensability. I will be pleased to report that the women's contingent is completely and magnificently indispensable to General Fission. Which reminds me, will you have dinner with me when we get home?"

Martha was somewhat paler. She leaned against the door. "And _I_ put _you_ on report!"

"Answer my question, girl, and hand me my pants."

"Your question? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, I'll have dinner with you. Here are your pants."

"And breakfast and lunch?"

"Is this a proposal?"

"Proposals on Mars violate our contract. So do propositions, so let's just call it a date."

"Date?" Martha fondled the word that sounded so alien and lovely. She smiled. "All right, Peter, it's a date."