She realized she had come to her feet out of surprise at seeing this man back out here. Her legs had turned her rise into a little jump, too, a meter or so, which was embarrassing, now that she thought of it. So she sat.

The Prefect’s aide came from a side door, a slim woman in a strict uniform, who said, “Audiences are over for today. The Prefect is disappointed in results and wishes to recast his mind. Come back tomorrow.”

She sighed. A reprieve, at least.

Rachel knew enough to go straight back to the Welcome Center. No sightseeing, stick to business.

They just nodded as if this was expected—after all, the two rejectees had just come through—and assigned her to a one-night-only apartment, open but shared. That meant going down stairs, which was harder than going up in Lunar grav. Launch yourself downward, aim for a step several feet farther down than you’re used to. Repeat, dancing on tiptoe sometimes. She missed one entirely but just crouched a bit in flight and the impact was not much after all.

Still, it made her edgy as she knocked on the apartment door. It slid swiftly open.

“What now?” The woman was thicker than the Lunans she had seen, and more… well, curvy.

Rachel handed over a small smart pad. “I’m sent for an overnight.”

Frown. “Damn, I’m in line for a coresident, not this in-out crap.”

“I’ll probably be gone for good tomorrow.”

The woman stepped aside and swept an arm widely. “Welcome to my wonderland.”

It was no bigger than Rachel’s Earthside one. “Two-bedroom?”

“Sure, a sort of exaggerated coffin.”

True enough. Rachel dropped her bag and they came back out into the broader space. Now the walls read her mood, responding by projecting a soothing beachfront with flour-white sand and blue-green waves crashing, with comforting murmurs of wind in palm trees. It helped, though not much.

“Here’s the kitchen. Well, kitchenette… or kitchenetteish.”

It was a tiny cubbyhole. Rachel grimaced. “With each suffix I guess they take away six cupboards and an appliance.”

“Hey, score! You’re fun.”

“Not often.”

A hand stuck out for a shake. “I’m Catkejen. You looking to stay?”

“Prob’ly not. You’re looking for a roomie?”

“Yeah, hate living alone. Nobody to laugh at my jokes.”

Rachel knew the drill. “Your last roommate lasted how long?”

“You jump right into the cross-exam, I see. A good sign.”

Rachel bored in, mouth severe. “So how long?”

“Two years. She wanted a baby, so she married one.”

Rachel laughed. Her cackle came out with an edge on it. That meant she was releasing tension—as her online psych always pointed out when it heard that. Bundled-up anxiety from the noninterview. Fear of the eventual one.

Of the Prefect. Self-knowledge, she thought ruefully, is mostly bad news.

“You’re here for…?”

“A Trainee interview.”

“With the Prefect?”

“He tossed out the two before me, then quit.”

“Good sign. He likes to cut away a few to show he’s got high standards.”