Virgin Ground

Annie signed on a bride ship for Mars. There were forty brides. And when she got there, thirty-nine men were waiting.
The pilot shoved open the airlock and kicked the stairs down.
Okay, girls. Carry your suitcases and I'll give each of you an oxygen mask as you go out. The air's been breathable for fifteen years, but it's still thin to newcomers. If you feel dizzy, take a whiff of oxygen.
The forty women just stood there and looked at each other. Nobody wanted to be first.
Annie moved forward, her bulky suitcase practically floating in her hand. She was a big woman with that wholesome expression which some women have to substitute for sex appeal. She'd made a great senior leader at summer camps.
I'll go first, she said, grinning confidence into the others. I'm not likely to bring out the beast in them. She waved herself out, letting the grin set and jell.
It was odd to feel light. She'd felt too heavy as far back as she could remember. Not fat heavy. Bone heavy.
The sweat on her face dried suddenly. She could feel it, like something being peeled off her skin. Arid climate.
It was cold. But she had the warmth to meet it.
There they were! Forty men. There were supposed to be forty. What if one of them had died! Who would go back?
Not me, Annie prayed to herself. Dear God, not me. She tried to count them. But they moved around so!
They were looking at something. Not Annie. The girl coming down the ramp behind Annie.