all the rhythm she saw in the dance, and none of the joy. She offers to help and gets a placedistancepartwhile to stand. She knows enough by now to wait and hold

only what she’s given to hold, and pull when told to pull. She counts the boats, counts the people coming off the boats. She knows the count pretty well today.

And all this time, beyond the wallfieldbarrier that holds in the air and separates the hangar from space, the Lights are speedthrowrolldriving over the gas giant’s foamfrothsea: colour

and pattern beyond an artist’s nightmare. Helix, head, matrix, mouth: Darling puts her back to space and begs the count to come out right.

~

They weren’t taking risks. Olaf holds back Inga’s hurryeagerness, holds to what has always been sure. But being first out means they are the deepest in.

It’s no use tallying what’s a mistake and what’s accidentmisfortune: there’s not a grain of meaning in the difference between the two, when skill meets the luckthrowchance of time.

The boat and its people do what they can as the gas giant’s wind and cloud and Lights are a brutal wheel whirlrushdancespinning all around the stormstrifestrainspeeddust’s emptyhungry eye.

~

Eynar has come to Noor at the Havenharbour, waiting in her office. An hour until she gets back, looking wild and sickfeebleplain. He’s made tea.

“We missed you at the Hall,” he says. She strips off the greatbig pilot gloves and vacuum-insulated sweaterjersey, takes her tea and looks at him.

“The Dance?” she says. “Oh. I’m sorry. I lost track of the days.” He shrugs. “I expect it’s veryfairly busy out here.” She hauls her mind into the room.

“Listen,” she says, “I think I’ve found . . . there’s something . . . the station . . . there’s something changing—” “Yes,” says Eynar, nervous. “That’s why I’m here. I wantneed advice, from someone—”

(the words are pouremptying out) “—who’s maybe travelled a bit, so I’m here, and maybe—” “No,” says Noor, “I mean— the Lights, it makes sense— the wrecks— I mean—”

But Eynar’s eyes are going wide. He drops his cup. It hits the deck and lands in just such a way that it spins. The note of its skimskip of plasticpolymer on metal

rising as it settles. Noor waits for the spin to stop, and knows, and turns. And every wreck outside is opening. More like a flower than a door. Fractal lines

in red and gold spread over the walls, the smoothstilllevel planes foldstrandfielding out – as gangways? petals? She sees the leaves (trees? books?) were held by

the measures she has made. Eynar rambles. She can’t hear. She’s veryfearfully calm. Beneath each leaf another. And then inside? Noor drinks and waits.

~

When Darling’s waiting for the last, and Inga out in the last is fighting wind and seatimetide, and Higgie and Noor are watching their unfoldfielding Light,