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adventure out here would have gone crazy in a "functional" environment. Thus far the bulkheads were bare metal and plastic. But the artistically talented had plans. Reymont noticed Emma Glassgold, molecular biologist, in a corridor, sketching out a mural that would show forest around a sunlit lake. And from the start, the residential and recreational decks were covered with a material green and springy as grass. The air gusting from the ventilators was more than purified by the plants of the hydroponic section and the colloids of the Darrell balancer. It went through changes of temperature, ionization, odor. At present it smelled like fresh clover—with an appetizing whiff added if you passed the galley, since gourmet food compensates for many deprivations.
    Similarly, commons was a warren occupying a whole deck. The gymnasium, which doubled as theater and assembly room, was its largest unit. But even the mess was of a size to let diners stretch their legs and relax. Nearby were hobby shops, a clubroom for sedentary games, a swimming pool, tiny gardens and bowers. Some of the ship's designers had argued against putting the dream boxes on this level. Should folk come here for fun be reminded by the door of that cabin that they must have ghostly substitutes for the realities they had left behind them? But the process was, after all, a sort of recreation too; having it in sick bay might be unpleasant, and that was the sole alternative.
    There was no immediate need for that apparatus. The journey was still young. A slightly hysterical gaiety filled the atmosphere. Men roughhoused, women chattered, laughter was inordinate at mealtimes, and the frequent dances were occasions of heavy flirtation. Passing the gym, which stood open, Reymont saw a handball match in progress. At low gee, when you could virtually walk up a wall, the action got spectacular.
    He continued to the pool. In an alcove off the principal corridor, it could hold several without crowding; but at this hour, 2100, no one

    was using it. Jane Sadler stood at the edge, frowning thoughtfully. She was a Canadian, a biotechnician in the organocycle department. Physically she was a big brunette, her features ordinary but the rest of her shown to high advantage by shorts and tee shirt.
    "Troubles?" Reymont asked.
    "Oh, hullo, Constable," she responded in English. "Nothing wrong, except I can't figure out how best to decorate in here. I'm supposed to make recommendations to my committee."
    "Didn't they plan on a Roman bath effect?"
    "Uh-huh. That covers a lot of ground, though. Nymphs and satyrs, or poplar groves, or temple buildings, or what?" She laughed. "Hell with it. I'll suggest N & S. If the job gets botched, it can always be done over, till we run out of paint. Give us something further to do."
    "Who can keep going five years—and five more, if we have to return—on hobbies?" Reymont said slowly.
    Sadler laughed again. "Nobody. Don't fret. Everyone aboard has a full program of work lined up, whether it be theoretical research or writing the Great Space Age Novel or teaching Greek in exchange for tensor calculus."
    "Of course. I've seen the proposals. Are they adequate?"
    "Constable, do relax! The other expeditions made it, more or less sanely. Why not us? Take your swim." She grinned wider. "While you're at it, soak your head."
    Reymont imitated a smile, removed his clothes, and hung them on a rack. She whistled. "Hey," she said, "I hadn't seen you before in less'n a coverall. That's some collection of biceps and triceps and things you pack around. Calisthenics?"
    "In my job, I'd better keep fit," he replied uncomfortably.
    "Some offwatch when you've nothing else to do," she suggested, "come around to my cabin and exercise me."
    "I'd enjoy that," he said, looking her up and down, "but at present Ingrid and I—"
    "Yeah, sure. I was kidding, sort of, anyway. Seems like I'll be making a steady liaison soon myself."
    "Really? Who, if I may ask?"
    "Elof Nilsson." She