It is insane to bring weapons into such an environment, where the psychological meaning of a thing is enhanced after ten days. Back in ancient history, Shell knows of a time when cosmonauts were issued with firearms, for killing bears and wolves after the space capsule returned to Earth. At least, that’s what the public was told when the information leaked. Even now, stalking through the Ragtime, looking for a wolf, Shell’s attention is focused on the guns that Fin and Salvo have, pointed forwards as they listen for the pad of lupine motion, inching in an aft direction towards Node 3. The bizarre thing, if you discount the wolf itself as something bizarre, is there are no droppings. Shell tries not to think of the most obvious – but also, at this time, most irrelevant – question: where has it come from? Her training is to always identify the task at hand, which is to find and neutralise the predator in the corridors. They can answer the “where” forensically. Fin’s way of thinking is catching.

“I think I can smell it,” says Fin.

So can Shell. She recognises the scent from the last time they met. What she hasn’t said is that the wolf may not be a threat. It didn’t do anything but breathe on her, did it? But she needs it captured. It is, at the very least, a puzzlement, a distraction, and at most it’s an agent of harm. It needs to be isolated where it cannot affect the work or the investigation.

They arrive at Torus 2, and there it is. It stops when it sees them, or smells them. It does not growl; it just charges. Something hypnotic about a seventy-five-kilo predator charging without any signs of rage. Fin sets his shoulders and raises his handgun, legs slightly apart, one in front of the other. Shell knows how to fire a gun, knows an expert when she sees one. When the shot comes, it still startles Shell, with the vibration in the enclosed space and the muzzle flash with the delayed smell. The wolf is unharmed and keeps coming, closing the distance.

“Did you miss?” asks Salvo, who is behind Fin.

“No,” said Fin, not defensive, not disturbed, stating fact. He fires again, and this time Shell can see where it hits the wolf just beneath the neck. The animal slows slightly but keeps coming. Five metres.

Shell’s hands tighten around the adjustable spanner she chose. Salvo pulls Fin behind him and moves to meet the wolf. Two metres.

“Ragtime, kill rotation,” says Shell.

All of them are thrown into microgravity and rise like birthday balloons. The wolf’s momentum keeps it coming, but now uncontrolled and uncertain of itself.