The ramps hosted dives where people were lively, doing crazy-looking dances in the low grav and slurping up outrageous drinks. Some did a kind of square dance, bouncing off the padded walls. The gaiety was grand, but a keep-your-hands-on-your-purse vibe pervaded. “Honky-Tonk Avenue,” Catkejen said with a grandiose, satiric arm-wave.

Rachel saw in a single glance flicking alligator shoes a-dancing, fancy fedoras, flouncy scarlet dresses, camel-hair sheath coats, and purple antique suits in wool and a lurid shantung. The dives had ornate names: Palace of Green Porcelain next to the Tolstoy of the Zulus, Smoke’em If You Got’em rubbing shoulders with the Red, White & You, and Hell & High Water, whose garish signs said it featured drinkable drugs. Catkejen waved these away and led her into So Eat Already, where a welcoming table of Catkejen’s friends erupted in noisy greetings.

Rachel sat and stayed silent, listening to the talky barrage:

“—that damn pressure door sealed tighter than a constipated frog’s ass—”

“—way I figure it, illegal pheromones give guys too much advantage—”

“—but me, when politics gets exciting, I reach for my hat.”

“—I swear, after that grainy gruel we got at the cafeteria yes’day, I dreamed of Prefects eating supper, slurping up beef and champagne, with a tail-coated snooty footman behind every chair—”

“—thing is, just data isn’t information. Information isn’t knowledge. The Message AIs—”

“—so even though it’s a spaceship, not a seaship, they say things like ‘they have him tied across a table in the fo’c’sle’; then he’s saved by a raiding party of pirates, one of them strides into the scene and says, ‘God, this here ship’s a very floatin’ Gomorry!’ and—what are you laughing at?”

Rachel wondered how she could catch up. That bar they’d passed, named Smoke’em If You Got’em—she had no idea why; a classical allusion?

Catkejen shushed them. “Hey, this is my new roommate, Rachel Cohen. A Trainee, passed the Prefect’s sniff test.”

“Next comes the… Naaaughttt…” A bony guy used deep bass notes to convey menace, grinning.

“May he rust in piss,” came a voice.

“He? Not a he or a she, that’s the point,” a big guy said. Rachel noted he sported ruffled silver hair and an air of casual elegance. He gave her a glance, looked away.

Catkejen said, “Hey, gang, keep our normal smartassery level down a bit, Rachel’s not used to our lacerating Loonie lingo.”

Rachel blinked and wrapped her face up with a fixed smile. The buzz moved on and she took it in, soaking in the talky tides. She considered the strata that ruled here, sanctified by over a century of intense work. They had been abstractions to her before, but here were real.

The pyramid of power in the Library of Intelligences, traditionally called the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, was rigid:

1. Prefects
2. Noughts
3. Librarians
4. Trainees
5. Seekers of Script
6. Miners

Below those higher ranks were the Novices, from whose ranks Rachel had just graduated after years of hard work, back Earthside. She had gained a First, meaning she’d leapfrogged over two ranks to become a Trainee. Below her now were Seekers of Script, who assisted Trainees and reported to Librarians. Below them, and the real strength of the Library, were Miners, more commonly referred to among the lower ranks as Hounds. The venerable terms came from the “data dogs” or “code miners” of nearly ancient times, before the Library had moved to Luna. At least she did not have to deal with the sexless Noughts. And most around this crowded table were, like Catkejen, Seekers of Script. And rowdy, now, in the company of someone fresh from Earthside, who had sprinted past them….