Across the table the party chef was preparing a “land shrimp cocktail” from a basket of wax worms. Rachel and Kane watched the chef discard the black ones, since that meant maybe necrosis, and peel away the glossy cocoons of those that had started to pupate. Kane smacked his lips comically. “Wax moth larvae, yum. Y’know, I get just standard rations, no boost at all.”

“That’s unfair,” Rachel said. “You must mass over a hundred.” He nodded and swept some more of the brown roasted crickets into his mouth. “Twenty-five kilos above a hundred. An enemy of the ecology, I am.” They watched the chubby, firm larvae sway deliriously, testing the air.

“We can’t all be the same size,” she said, and thought, How dopey! Say something funny. And smile. She remembered his profile, standing alone and gazing out at the view through the bubble platform. She moved closer. “He who is alone is in bad company.”

“Sounds like a quotation,” Kane said, intently eyeing the chef as she dumped the larvae into a frying pan. They fell into the buttery goo there and squirmed and hissed and sizzled for a moment before all going suddenly still. Soon they were crusty and popping, and a thick aroma like mushrooms rose from them. Catkejen edged up nearby, and Rachel saw the whole rest of the party was grouped around the table, drawn by the tangy scent. “Food gets a crowd these days,” Kane said dryly.

The chef spread out the roasted larvae, and the onlookers descended on them. Rachel managed to get a scoopful and backed out of the press. “They’re soooo good,” Catkejen said, and Rachel had to introduce Kane. Amid the rush, the three of them worked their way out onto a blister porch. Far below this pinnacle tower the Lunar Center sprawled under slanted sunlight, with the crescent Earth showing eastern Asia. Kane was nursing his plate of golden-brown larvae, dipping them in a sauce. Honey!

“I didn’t see that hon—” Rachel began; before she could say more, Kane popped a delicious fat larvae covered in tangy honey into her mouth.

“Um!” she managed.

Kane smiled and leaned on the railing, gazing at the brilliant view beyond the transparent bubble. The air was chilly but she could catch his scent, a warm bouquet that her nose liked. “As bee vomit goes,” he said, “not bad.”

“Oog!” Catkejen said, mouth wrenching aside—and caught Rachel’s look. “Think I’ll have more…” and she drifted off, on cue.

Kane looked down at Rachel appraisingly. “Neatly done.”

She summoned up her southern accent. “Why, weah all alone.”

“And I, my deah, am an agent of Satan, though mah duties are largely ceremonial.”

She liked that, but went back to her usual flat accent, easy on the vowels. “So can the Devil get me some actual meat?”

“You know the drill. Insect protein is much easier to raise in the caverns. Gloppy, sure, since it’s not muscle, as with cows or chickens.”

“Ah, the chemgineer comes out at last.”