somewhere. Honestly, this is fantastic.” The artist shrugtwitchflounces off and grabs her clothes, wantneeding layers between her spacer skin and Darling’s sickspoilboring enthusiasm. “You don’t understand.”

Darling sees the writhingpain now, starts to comprehend the scale of it, her placedistancepartwhile in it, the fear of it. “Tell me?” But Astrid’s dressprepared and has left, leaving her slate.

Inga is waantan pey

Whan Inga comes oot tae Noor

tae pit a fingerprent

tae a slaet tae confirm the salvage –

the credits tae be turst

intae the next shaef

fer the next Autonomist ferry

tae tak tae a bankeen staetion,

an fae thir furder oot

the gret galactic airm

til hid wins tae a piece whar data

can traivel better an faaster

by lang waves o light

as by a shaef on a ship,

an twatree month hid’ll be

afore a record comes back

that on a muckle net

o sairvers on some planet,

a piece sheu’ll nivver gang,

the nummers at track her credits

is ap, an aence this process

teuk years, an inner staetions

didno need credits,

but the less Orcadia maks

the more hid’s gotten nummers –

the arkaeolojist’s sheuched

in a bing o slaets an mummlan

uncan formulae,

flippan fae slaet tae slaet.

“Thir a livveen in this?”

speirs Inga. Noor turns.

Her een is a lightyear awey.

“In what?” sheu says. An Inga

waffs ower the blinkan gear,

an, dootsome, oot the screen.

Noor cheeters. “In studying

impenetrable galactic mysteries

without commercial use?”

“Ya,” says Inga, shruggan.

Noor, distracted, picks

a slaet fer the docket.

“For now, but whims of funding

might well summon me home

at any moment.” Sheu leuks

til a wrack. “Even now.”

Hid’s bobban on hids tedder.

The spaekers bide silent.

The wrack laeves the screen.

“Right enogh,” says Inga.

“Me coseen is wi a college

roon Alpha Centauri, wirkan

wi archives o 21st century

intertextual narrative,

an sheu says somtheen like that.

Right enogh. An if

more o thee fock cam in

I doot thay’ll be needan

fock at kens botts?”

Noor sees the waant

i’the quaistion. Hid’s the sam

as the waant sheu’s gotten whan fleean

roon wracks, the waant sheu’s gramsan

again: no jeust tae bide,

tae hae enogh maet tae bide,

but tae bide wi uiss.

Sheu shaas the salvage docket

tae Inga. “Here,” sheu says,

an “If . . .” The yolewife waits.

“If what I think I’ve found . . .”

Noor shaks her heid an fires

a queek peedie freesk.

“I’ll ask,” sheu says. The wracks

pass by. “I’ll certainly ask.”

Inga is wantingwithout pay