It's starting to sound like a good idea. The less time he spends in Beebe these days, the better.

The station is a dim faraway blotch, glowing to Fischer's left. Brander's in there. He goes on duty in three hours. Fischer figures he can just stay out here until then. He doesn't really need to go inside much. None of them do. There's a little desalinator piggybacked on his electrolyser in case he gets thirsty, and a bunch of flaps and valves that do things he doesn't want to think about, when he has to piss or take a dump.

He's getting a bit hungry, but he can wait. He's fine out here as long as nothing attacks him.

Brander just won't let him alone. Fischer doesn't know what Brander's got against him—

Oh yes you do, says Shadow.

—but he knows that look. Brander wants him to fuck up real bad.

The others keep out of it, for the most part. Nakata, the nervous one, just keeps out of everyone's way. Caraco acts like she couldn't care less if he boiled alive in a smoker. Lubin just sits there, looking at the floor and smoldering; even Brander leaves him alone.

And Lenie. Lenie's cold and distant as a mountaintop. No, Fischer's not getting any help with Brander. So when it comes to a choice between the monsters out here or the one in there, it's an easy call.

Caraco and Nakata are doing a hull check back at the station. Their distant voices buzz distractingly along Fischer's jaw. He shuts his receiver off and settles down behind an outcropping of basalt pillows.

Later, he can't remember drifting off.

* * *

"Listen, cocksucker. I just did two shifts end to end because you didn't show up for work when you were supposed to. Then half another shift looking for you. We thought you were in trouble. We assumed you were in trouble. Don't tell me—"

Brander pushes Fischer up against the wall.

"Don't tell me," he says again, "that you weren't. You don't want to say that."

Fischer looks around the ready room. Nakata watches from the opposite bulkhead, jumpy as a cat. Lubin rattles around in the equipment lockers, his back to the proceedings. Caraco racks her fins and edges past them to the ladder.

"Carac—"

Brander slams him hard against the wall.

Caraco, her foot on the bottom rung, turns and watches for a moment. A smile ghosts across her face. "Don't look at me, Gerry my man. This is your problem." She climbs away overhead.

Brander's face hovers a few centimeters away. His hood is still sealed, except for the mouth flap. His eyes look like translucent glass balls embedded in black plastic. He tightens his grip.

"So, cocksucker?"

"I'm...sorry—" Fischer stammers.

"You're sorry." Brander glances over his shoulder, includes Nakata in the joke. "He's sorry."

Nakata laughs, too loudly.

Lubin clanks in the locker, still ignoring them all. The airlock begins cycling.

"I don't think," Brander says, raising his voice over the sudden gurgle, "that you're sorry enough."