—Later she raised herself on an elbow and met his eyes with hers. She had set the lights dim. Shadows moved behind her, around her, making her doubly gold- and amber-hued. With a finger she traced his profile.

“You’re a wonderful lover, Carl,” she murmured. “I’ve never had a better.”

“I’m fond of you too,” he said.

A hint of pain touched brow and voice. “But that’s the only time you really give of yourself. And do you, altogether, even then?”

“What is there to give?” His tone roughened. “I’ve told you about things that happened to me in the past.”

“Anecdotes. Episodes. No connection, no— There at die pool, for the first time, you offered me a glimpse of what you are. The tiniest possible glimpse, and you hid it away at once. Why? I wouldn’t use the insight to hurt you, Carl.”

He sat up, scowling. “I don’t know what you mean. People learn about each other, living together. You know I admire classical artists like Rembrandt and Bonestell, and don’t care for abstractions or chromodynamics. I’m not very musical. I have a barrack-room sense of humor. My politics are conservative. I prefer tournedos to filet mignon but wish the culture tanks could supply us with either more often. I play a wicked game of poker, or would if there were any point in it aboard this ship. I enjoy working with my hands and am good at it, so I’ll be helping build the laboratory facilities once that project gets organized. I’m currently trying to read War and Peace but keep falling asleep.” He smote the mattress. “What more do you need?”

“Everything,” she answered sadly. She gestured around the room. Her closet happened to stand open, revealing me innocent vanity of her best gowns. The shelves were filled with her private treasures, to the limit of her mass allowance— a battered old copy of Bellman, a lute, a dozen pictures waiting their turn to be hung, smaller portraits other kinfolk, a Hopi kachina doll… “You brought nothing personal.”

“I’ve traveled light through life.”

“On a hard road, I think. Maybe someday you’ll dare trust me.” She drew close to him. “Never mind now, Carl. I don’t want to harass you. I want you in me again. You see, this has stopped being a matter of friendship and convenience. I’ve fallen in love with you.”

* * *

When the appropriate speed was reached, lining out of Earth’s domain toward that sign of the zodiac where the Virgin ruled, Leonora Christine went free. Thrusters cold, she became another comet. Gravitation alone worked upon her, bending her path, diminishing her haste.

It had been allowed for. But the effect must be kept minimal. The uncertainties of interstellar navigation were too large as was, without adding an extra factor. So the crew— the professional spacemen, as distinguished from the scientific and technical personnel— worked under a time limit.

Boris Fedoroff led a gang outside. Their job was tricky. You needed skill to labor in weightlessness and not exhaust yourself trying to control tools and body. The best of men could still let both bondsoles lose their grip on the ship frame. You would float off, cursing, nauseated by spin forces, until you brought up at the end of your lifeline and hauled yourself back. Lighting was poor: unshielded glare in the sun, ink blackness in shadow except for what puddles of undiffused radiance were cast by helmet lamps. Hearing was no better. Words had trouble getting through the sounds of harsh breath and muttering blood, when these were confined in a spacesuit, and through the cosmic seething in radio earplugs. For lack of air purification comparable to the ship’s, gaseous wastes were imperfectly removed. They accumulated over hours until you toiled in a haze of sweat smell, water vapor, carbon dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, acetone… and your undergarments clung sodden to your skin… and you looked wearily through your faceplate at the stars, with a band of headache behind your eyes.