“Oh, I didn’t recognize you,” said the commander, his hand extended in a handshake, as if just noticing Pirx for the first time. “Any word from the Sprite?” he inquired over Pirx’s shoulder of someone standing in the doorway.

“Yes, sir. She’s backing up.”

“Good.”

They lingered for a while longer, their eyes resting on the screen. The last trace of polluted cloud had evaporated, the screen once again filling with a raw and starry blackness.

“What do you think? Any survivors?” asked Pirx, assuming for some reason that the commander was more in the know than he was. A commander, after all, was supposed to know everything.

“Their deadlights must have jammed,” the skipper replied. He was at least a head shorter than Pirx, with hair the color of lead. Pirx couldn’t remember whether it had always been that gray.

“Mindell!” the commander called out, catching sight of his engineer passing by. “Lift the passenger alert, will you? They can go back to their dancing now.” Addressing the silent Pirx, he said, “Ever aboard the Albatross?”

“No.”

“A western company. Twenty-three thousand tons.” He was interrupted. “Yes? What is it?”

The radio operator handed him a message. Pirx could make out only the beginning: “Ballistic to…”

He stepped back out of the way. When he saw that he was still blocking traffic, he retreated into the corner and stood against the wall. Presently Mindell came barging in.

“Any news of the Dasher?” asked Pirx. Mindell was mopping his brow with a handkerchief, this man whom Pirx was beginning to feel he had known for years.

“A close shave,” said Mindell, trying to catch his breath. “Got hit by the blast, sprang a leak in the cooling system—that sonofabitch is always the first to blow. First- and second-degree burns. The medics are already there.”