a smoosie body will ask whit sheu’s deuan.

Naebody deus. Sheu dights her plaet.

Eftir, the both o thaim lie i thir bunks

on conter airms o the Wheel, birlan,

askin thirsels if thir maed a mistaek,

askin thirsels whit wey is a haem.

Astrid and Darling settle in

Astrid eats with her folk. “Will you work?” asks Inga over the protein soup. “I’m here to draw,” says Astrid. “To work on my art. I wantneed ideas from home.”

“Yes,” says Inga, “that’s goodbig. And you’ll take a job or two from the rotas as well.” Øyvind touches Astrid’s arm. “It’s goodbig that you’re home. There’s plenty of time.”

Halfway around the station, Darling, knackered from sailing, fullbursting with hope, sits in the House with a plate of foodmeat. Eynar brought it to her, sporting

an apron and a smile. She tried to ask him about his people and the station: he nodded and bustlecrackled back to the bar. She watched the people and ate her foodmeat.

Astrid speaks about the journey, about what her friends on Mars are doing. The words are loud in their little rooms. Inga and Øyvind’s spoons gratehackrattle.

Darling notes down a plan on her slate of what she wants to see; she hopes a nosy personbody will ask what she’s doing. Nobody does. She cleanwipes her plate.

Later, both of them lie in their bedbunks on oppositeopposing arms of the Wheel, whirlrushdancespinning, asking themselves if they’ve made a mistake, asking themselves whathowwherewhy a home is.

Olaf Lighter an Eynar o the Hoose speir at the new teknolojy

“Whit wey deus hid wirk?” asks Eynar, pooran

a beer. “A’m no sure,” says Olaf,

“but yin arkaeolojist, ken, ach,

whit’s her naem, telt hid like this—”

The jimpit yoleman taks twa glesses

an a pock o nuts an steers

this subtle injines trou the warp

o time, noo rings o spirit on

the binkled aluminium bar.

“The drive maks a pock, see,

o hyperspace tae win trou,

tae exceed relatievistic constraints.”

“Ya, but,” says Eynar, “I thowt hid wis

more ontolojiecal restrictions

as teknolojiecal limits. Whit wey

ir thay avoydan catastrophic

temporal paradox, eh?” Olaf

taks a drowt o his ael an says,

“Ya weel. Best kens. An best kens

thay maan, fer hid’s bad enogh tae loss

the laast bit o the laast bit

o wir shippeen ithoot messan wi fuckan

multiversal anomalies

an aa.” An Eynar, no drinkan, says,

“A’ll drink tae yin,” lukkan ower

the empty poly chairs an taebles,

Olaf’s grayan hair, an weyghan

the wirth o his bisness, the size o his saeveens,

the price o a ticket tae Ross or Mars

or Proxima Centauri Twa,

an runnan the nummers again, an wipan

the trails o the hyperdrive fae the bar.

Olaf the Lighter and Eynar the Landlord question the new technology