The people at Ames have a team of psychologists, engineers, and architects working right now on the problems of orbital intimacy, using a wealth of data gathered from the cockpits of commercial airliners. In Houston, they're putting couples on the centrifuge. Most report feeling closer than they have in years.

Still, there are bound to be complications in orbital sex. Microgravity could raise false hopes. Astronauts themselves may not make the best lovers -- who wants to hear a checklist during foreplay? A lot of women don't like a guy who needs a mission specialist in Houston to tell him when to fire his retrorockets. What about the heat shield? Will it hold up during re-entry? Romance, so crucial to the success of the mission, could suffer when, instead of a playful trail of lingerie and stockings, you would be dodging the rubber anti-g drawers and fluid collection devices floating in your love nest. Even if they lick the fireplace problem, Harvey's Bristol Cream through a squeeze bottle may not have the same effect.

Afterward, there's the very real problem of drifting apart, even as you share a pull from a tube of anchovy paste. Should he roll and pitch over and become just so much more space junk (leaving her to vacuum up her tears), the resulting friction might negatively impact on the mission, particularly if she refuses to share data with him for thirty of forty orbits or, worst case, should he extravehiculate and she change the airlocks. Hard feelings would be inevitable, as well, among other crew members who have to be content with biological experiments of the frog kind.

Crucial will be the counseling provided the postorbital couple during the natural letdown once back on earth. After all, several million pounds of thrust will not easily be forgotten.