Our conversation trails off, so I end up staring out the window at the rippling blanket of clouds. Beneath them lies a planet where trees shade the ground and grass cushions the dirt and water moistens the soil. But somewhere out there, the desert devours the land, slowly transforming Belvun into the same kind of place I’m trying to escape.

When the clouds begin to thin, I look out and see a cluster of buildings gathered several miles away to the left. At first the forest leading up to Subari is full and untouched, but beyond the city is a different sight. Heat thickens the air, and the trees are sparse. The land is discolored and dry. On Undil, the desert is the world. Here, it’s the death of one.

But that’s all beyond the city and its outlying neighborhoods, creeping in slowly. As the hovercraft descends, I can see individual houses and roads in the trees, even yards filled with bright orange grass and the occasional ring of blue: swimming pools, a luxury few people have on Undil. Most of us prefer to stay inside.

The hovercraft circles the city limits, and then—after gaining clearance—drops into an underground terminal. After we dock, the hatch slides back. The passengers all exit. Carsh Fridon stands to the side of the hatch and thanks everyone for flying with him.

“Enjoy yourself, Mr. Lance,” he tells me when I pass.

Outside the terminal, traffic is light, especially for a Friday morning. The sun is as high here as it was when I left the Embassy, and when I check the time, it’s almost seventeen o’clock. The time difference between Subari and the Embassy must be about five hours.

A wave of heat reminiscent of Undil’s wind blows over me. I’m wearing my uniform, so the cooling fibers moderate my body temperature as I walk down the street and look for a place where it won’t be inconvenient to ask for directions. Up the road there’s a flashing sign that says Lukman’s Café, so I beeline for it.

A welcomed draft of cold air washes over my face when I go inside. A giant picture of a man standing on top of a mountain decorates the back wall with the inscription ‘Anas C. Lukman, Pioneer’ carved along the bottom of the wooden frame. The girl behind the register is leaning over the counter, chin set in both hands and looking as bored as can be. She’s younger than me, maybe in her first or second year of Secondary. ‘Janie’ is printed on her nametag.

“What can I get ya?” she asks, perking up now that she has a customer.

I show her Ladia’s address. “How do I get there?”