When Inga comes out to Noor to put a fingerprint to a slate to confirm the salvage – the credits to be trussbundlegrappled into the next sheafslice for the next Autonomist ferry to take to a banking station, and from there farther out the great galactic arm, until it reachtravelachieves the placedistancepartwhile where data can travel better and faster by long waves of light than by a sheafslice on a ship, and it will be a few months before any record comes back that, on a greatbig net

of servers on a random planet, a placedistancepartwhile she’ll never go, the numbers that track her credits are up, and this process once took years, and inner stations didn’t need credits, but the less Orcadia makes the more they have numbers – the archaeologist’s burytrenchguttered in a heapbin of slates and mumbling strangerweird formulae, flipping from slate to slate. “Is there a living in this?” asks Inga. Noor turns. Her eyes are a lightyear away. “In what?” she says. And Inga

signalgesturehintwaves at the flashingcursed equipment, and, uncertain, through the screen. Noor chucklegiggles. “In studying impenetrable galactic mysteries without commercial use?” “Yes,” says Inga, shrugging. Noor, distracted, tapchaptakes a slate for the docket. “For now, though whims of funding might well summon me home at any moment.” She looks over at a wreck. “Even now.” It’s rockdanceswaying on its tether. The speakers waitstaylive silent. The wreck leaves the screen. “I see,” says Inga.

“My cousin works at a college orbiting Alpha Centauri, working on archives of 21st century intertextual narrative, and she says something like that. OK then. And if more of your people travel here, I expect they will need people who know boats?” Noor sees the wantneed in the question, because it’s the same wantneed she has had when flying around wrecks, the wantneed she’s snatchgrabbing again: not just to waitstaylive, to have enough foodmeat to waitstaylive, but to waitstaylive with use.

She showpasses the salvage docket to Inga. “Here,” she says, and “If . . .” The boat worker waits. “If what I think I’ve found . . . ” Noor shakes her head and chuckthrowfires a quick little false smile. “I’ll ask,” she says. The wrecks pass by. “I will certainly ask.”

Darling peys Olaf fer a hurl

“I’m interested,” sheu says, “in how you work.”

Olaf is dozent, hingan atween blaetness,

twartieness an his awn restless virr

fer the botts an the Lights. He kinno waants tae tell

ivrytheen tae sombody, but disno

ken whit like a body sheu is, but

is fyarmt, but disno waant tae disappoynt,

but is prood, but is feart, so says,

“Oh yaas,” lukkan oot, an notheen more.

The yole sails oot the dock wi ferfil quiet.

Darling’s peyed him, tho, an wisno borned

tae walth or comed atwart the galaxy

ithoot lairnan somtheen aboot tisan

a faevor: sheu leuks fer less o the suspiecion

an more o the desire. Sheu speirs him slaa

an huily, piece an piece, laevan space