At first the experience feels harmless, even pure: square dances under the stars, lazy mornings at the mess hall, a beautiful blonde who smiles at him over the breakfast tables. But the longer he stays, the more he senses something restless humming beneath all that wholesome sunlight. A drunkard with hungry eyes is watching the women too closely, and the colony’s rules of decency are thinner than the cabin walls.
When civilization finally splits open at the seams, the writer learns that a man stripped to the skin still carries every primitive urge he was born with, and a fight without clothes is the oldest kind of all.