His airms birn.

His een tift.

He growes shairper.

Øyvind, Astrid’s father, at work

The tongs, foodmeat and syringespout are only visible through

a microscope but to Øyvind it’s like he’s hauling

a ship: his muscles are held in such a tight tension.

Brenna and Gunnie, young ones assigned to work with him,

are chucklegiggling in the corner. He scowlstares and putlaystillweaves the breath-thick

slice of protein into its placedistancepartwhile, then shifts to the next.

“Smell that,” he says. Øyvind glories in the stinkpuffsnortnonsense of the lab.

“Only the hand-cultivated stinksmokes this good.”

Brenna comes beside him, asks, “Doesn’t nano-

replication smell the same?” “Quiet,” he says.

He’s taking a course: communications. He knows his rows

of protein dishes must rebrand as luxury.

His arms burn. His eyes throbfester. He grows sharper.

The arkaeolojist at the Wrack-Hofn

Noor steers her skiff trou the voyd hulks.

Hid’s been a langersome day, the trachle o loggan

ivry mett o the wrack, Inga’s godssend.

Fae sheu’s comed tae space sheu’s fund her body

thickenan – Orcadia’s gravitaetional spin

a drag on her meun-growen bonns – an mynd thinnan.

Aence sheu wis yivver tae set her diastimeter

on the deck o a cell. Sheu’d sneck the laser

an dirl wi the new nummers: the thowt o paitrens

i’the teum plans o this gret black reums,

i’the shairp angles o thir slite black waas,

somepiece a staen tae mak thaim intae meanan.

Noo ivry twatree Stannart Month the lighters

tak anither wrack wi raedeens tae mirk

anither theory. The waas she passes is silent,

rich wi unanswerability: ships or staetions

or sculptures or temples or byres – sheu speeds the skiff –

or tombs or warks – speeds faaster yet – or follies

or calculaetors or classreum exercises

o Arkieteck-Gods. Nae drive, nae rudder, nae hairt,

nae braens, nae lungs, nae hass, nae tong, nae will,

undeeman abeun her, undeeman anunder, bund

in orbit ahint the Deep Wheel, the Hofn

aye growan in grandur an skrinklan in sense.

The archaeologist at the Wreck-Havenharbour

Noor steers her skiff through the emptyabandoned hulks. It has been a longtiring day, the drudgemuddletrudge of logging every measuremarklot of the wreck, Inga’s salvagewrecktreasure.

Since she came to space she’s found her body thickening – Orcadia’s gravitational spin a drag on her moon-grown bones – and her mind thinning.

Once she was eagershakeanxious to set her distance-measurer on the floor of a chamber. She’d switch on the laser and thrillpierceshakewhirl to the new numbers: the thought of patterns

in the emptyhungry plans of these great black rooms, in the sharp angles of their smoothstilllevel black walls, somewhere a stone to make them into meaning.

Now every few Standard Months the lighters bring another wreck with readings to obscuredulldarken another theory. The walls she passes are silent,

rich with unanswerability: ships or stations or sculptures or temples or barns – she speeds the skiff – or tombs or factories – speeds faster still – or follies