intae the ayebidan stoor o a stoor planet,

skittran atween helm, daikles an lines,

thraan a flyre atwart her luntit face.

Hid wisno possieble. Sheu shoud been wrackid.

Wi whit sheu did, Orcadia shoud been murnan

But luck o the fell gods is wi her (an yass,

sheu pits up a prayer a second anent the wind),

so whan at laast sheu docks at Lightness Bay,

weel by the turnan o the Stannart Day,

sheu’s taen tae haem tree day or more o Light,

an sets aboot unloddan hid by hersel.

Inga takes her boat out

She can’t ask her crew to work any harder, or stand to quit when she’s brought in nothing for three long days: so here she is, alone above the swellwave without a peep of Light. She charts the whirls, the restpauselulls, the main currents and the back currents of the yellow gas giant’s flowing sphere, and where they’ll hope to find a sign of Lights tomorrow, and then the oscilloscope starts yellscreeching like a child.

Inga knows she can’t bring in the Lights by herself, but: days without a peep and now a vast amount of Light, the most for months, just when she can’t take it. She dives in, into the upper seatimetides of gas, into the eye, into the everlasting stormstrifestrainspeeddust of a stormstrifestrainspeeddust planet, rushdarting about between helm, compasses and lines, twistthrowing a leergrimace across her sparklightflaming face.

It wasn’t possible. She should have been wrecked. With what she did, Orcadia should have been mourning. But luck of the fiercecruelclever gods is with her (and yes, she says a prayer a second againstaboutbefore the wind), so when at last she docks at Lightness Hangar, well past the turning of the Standard Day, she’s brought to home three days or more of Light, and starts to unload it by herself.

Astrid taks Darling tae a meun

Thay step intae a bruckit domm,

aa the poly taen fae the reuf,

an mosst o the dwangs an aa: liftid

back tae space tae big more bolas

an wheels whan the staetion wis growan.

Darling laens intae Astrid –

touchan trou seiven layers

o waakan claes – an leuks ap

at fower meuns. Or is it doon?

“I see why they gave up building here.

It’s gorgeous but I’m sick already.

It’s all too fast.” “Faaster as whit?

Fock is movvan faaster on Mars,

relietive tae the centre.” “But then

I couldn’t see! And I stayed on the ground.”

Sheu haps her airms aroon Astrid’s waist

an kieks aff intae space. Thay flee

a fair piece. Thir tedders stretch.

Darling golders. Astrid, quiet,

flees thaim doon. “Dinno,” sheu says.

“Fock dee that wey.” “But we—” “Jeust ken,

fock dee. Jeust ken. Noo waatch.” Orcadia

turns intae view, an the yotun,

an five, an sax more meuns. The tirlan

mathematics is a dose more

as Darling can compriehend, fer aa