In the evenings, when both his body and mind are tired from being taxed to the limit, Fin studies what information they have on Michelle Campion. Comes from a space-faring family, three generations of what Earth people call astronauts. The profile contains a standard image, which is Campion, face and shoulders, in a half-turn towards the camera, smiling. She has brown hair, brown eyes, and the kind of facial creases that make people trust. Or fall in love. This is a publicity photo, though, and she would have been given specific instructions. Her training and flight records are sterile figures. Data from Earth tends to come in bursts bounced from bridge to bridge. It is expensive, tightly controlled, and there is no room for embellishment. The records are routine and don’t shed light on why this rookie is flying an interstellar without AI.

Fin disconnects his IFC from the terminal and tries to sleep.

Fin hates space: the cramped living quarters, the weird food, the toilets with their grasping tubes, the forced proximity to others, the smells. This persists despite the best efforts of the spacewoman in charge of training him.

“Stop fighting it. Work with the limitations,” she says.

Fin shakes his head like a toddler refusing food. “I’m only taking this mission to get back to what I really do.”

“Yes, you’re an investigator. I know that. But you aren’t one right now, so start to think like a spaceman, hey?”

“I’ll never be a spaceman.”

“You are aware that there are people who live in space all the time, right?”

“Good for them.”

“Uh-huh. At least tell me you’re going to trim that hair down to size. That’s not going to fit in a helmet.”

A few days to the end of the week, Malaika summons Fin. He has documents on his desk that Fin surmises are results.

“You drink?” asks Malaika.

Fin shakes his head. “My family is of The Book. Alcohol isn’t permitted.”

Malaika pours himself a drink. “Your boss told me a story about you.”

Fin groans.

“Relax, it’s not the one you think, although I have heard that one too.” Malaika sips his drink. “Unwin says when he first met you it was in a class of twenty. He was there to introduce you all to criminology studies. He came in with a beaker full of urine. He stuck a finger in and put a finger in his mouth. Then he placed the beaker in front of the first student and told each of them to taste and pass on.”

“I remember.”

“He said you were the only one who didn’t taste the piss.”

“Mr Unwin dipped one finger in the urine and tasted a different finger, sir.”

“Yes. He does this every year. When you didn’t fall for it, he thought you had promise. He still thinks that.”

“I failed the spaceflight training, didn’t I?” says Fin.