Friewald looked away. “There is no more Asia,” he said. “No more anything.”

“There’s us,” Reymont answered. “We’re alive, we’re real, we have hope. What else do you want? Some grandiose philosophical significance? Forget it. That’s a luxury. Our descendants will invent it, along with tedious epics about our heroism. We have the sweat, tears, blood” —his grinflashed— “in short, the unglamorous bodily excretions. And what’s bad about that? Your trouble is, you think a combination of acrophobia, sensory deprivation, and nervous strain is a metaphysical crisis. Myself, I don’t despise our lobsterish instinct to survive. I’m glad we have one.”

Freiwald floated motionless.

Reymont crossed to him and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m not belittling your difficulties,” he said. “It is hard to keep going. Our worst enemy is despair; and it wrestles every one of us to the deck, every now and then.”

“Not you,” Freiwald said.

“Oh yes,” Reymont told him. “Me too. I get my feet back, though. So will you. If you’ll only stop feeling worthless because of a disability that is a perfectly normal temporary result of psychic exhaustion— as Jane understands better than you, young fellow— why, the disability will soon go away of itself. Afterward you’ll see the rest of your problems in perspective and start coping once more.”

“Well—” Freiwald, who had tensed while Reymont spoke, relaxed the barest bit. “Maybe.”

“I know. Ask the doctor if you don’t believe me. If you want, I’ll have him issue you some psychodrugs to hasten your recovery. My reason is that I do need you, Johann.”

The muscles beneath Reymont’s palm softened further. He smiled. “However,” he continued, “I’ve got with me the only psychodrug I expect is called for.”

“What?” Freiwald looked “up.”

Reymont reached under his tunic and extracted a squeeze bottle with twin drinking tubes. “Here,” he said. “Rank has its privileges. Scotch. The genuine article, not that witch’s brew the Scandinavians think is an imitation. I prescribe a hefty dose for you, and for myself too. I’d enjoy a leisurely talk. Haven’t had any for longer than I can remember.”

They had been at it an hour, and life was coming back in Freiwald’s manner, when the intercom said with Ingrid Lindgren’s voice: “Is the constable there?”

“Uh, yes,” Freiwald replied.

* * *

“Sadler told me,” the first officer explained. “Could you come to the bridge, Carl?”

“Urgent?” Reymont asked.

“N-n-not really, I guess. The latest observations seem to indicate… further evolutionary changes in space. We may have to modify our cruising plan. I thought you might like to discuss it.”

“All right.” Reymont shrugged at Freiwald. “Sorry.”

“Me also.” The other man considered the flask, shook his head sadly, and offered it back.

“No, you may as well finish it,” Reymont said. “Not alone. Bad, drinking alone. I’ll tell Jane.”

“Well now.” Freiwald genuinely laughed. “That’s kind of you.”

Emerging, closing the door behind him, Reymont glanced the length of the corridor. No one else was in sight. He sagged, then, eyes covered, body shaking. After a minute he filled his lungs and started for the bridge.