Serenity Station’s ring of stars replaced the solemn features.

“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all he’s got to say?”

“His attitude might be different if he were here looking out the window.”

“You goddam know it would be.”

He paused and frowned, distracted by something. “More incoming,” he said. “From Renaissance.”

Hutch felt her stomach lurch.

This time it was the station director himself. Lawrence Dimenna, A.F.D., G.B.Y., two-time winner of the Brantstatler Award. He was handsome in an austere and distant sort of way. Like many accomplished centenarians, he looked relatively young, yet his eyes radiated the inflexibility and certainty that comes with age. She detected no amiability in the man. His hair was blond, his jaw set, and he was not happy. Nevertheless he managed a smile. “Captain Hutchins, I’m glad you got here promptly.”

He was seated at a desk. Several plaques were arranged on the bulkhead behind him, positioned to reveal they were there. She wasn’t close enough to make out details unless she increased magnification, an action that would have been perceived as less than polite. But one carried the United Kingdom coat of arms. Knight of the Realm, perhaps?

He gathered himself, studied the broad expanse of his desk, then brought his eyes up to look into hers. He looked frightened. “We’ve had an eruption,” he said. He used the sort of monotone that suggests the speaker is keeping his head amid serious trouble. “Proteus has thrown off a major flare.”

Her heart picked up.

“I told them this could happen. There should have been a ship on-station and ready to go.”

My God. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?