“What? You’ve just arrived… Where have you come from?” he asked, almost sober.

“From Earth!” I retorted angrily. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? Not that anyone would ever guess it.”

“From Earth? Good God! Then you must be Kelvin.”

“Of course. Why are you looking at me like that? What’s so startling about me?”

He blinked rapidly.

“Nothing,” he said, wiping his forehead, “nothing. Forgive me, Kelvin, it’s nothing, I assure you. I was simply surprised, I didn’t expect to see you.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t expect to see me? You were notified months ago, and Moddard radioed only today from the Prometheus.”

“Yes; yes, indeed. Only, you see, we’re a bit disorganized at the moment.”

“So I see,” I answered dryly.

Snow walked around me, inspecting my atmosphere suit, which was standard issue with the usual harness of wires and cables attached to the chest. He coughed, and rubbed his bony nose:

“Perhaps you would like a bath? It would do you good. It’s the blue door, on the other side.”

“Thanks — I know the Station lay-out.”

“You must be hungry.”

“No. Where’s Gibarian?”

Without answering, he went over to the window. From behind he looked considerably older. His close-cropped hair was grey, and deep wrinkles creased his sunburnt neck.

The wave-crests glinted through the window, the colossal rollers rising and falling in slow-motion. Watching the ocean like this one had the illusion — it was surely an illusion — that the Station was moving imperceptibly, as though teetering on an invisible base; then it would seem to recover its equilibrium, only to lean the opposite way with the same lazy movement. Thick foam, the color of blood, gathered in the troughs of the waves. For a fraction of a second, my throat tightened and I thought longingly of the Prometheus and its strict discipline; the memory of an existence which suddenly seemed a happy one, now gone forever.