Lindgren sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, thanks,” she replied. “I’m on duty.”

“And I’m supposed to be. Yes.” Fedoroff loomed over her, slumping. “I informed the bridge I feel indisposed and had better take a rest.”

“Shouldn’t Dr. Latvala examine you?”

“What for? I’m physically well.” Fedoroff paused. “You came to make sure of me.”

“Part of my job. I’ll respect your privacy. But you are a key man.”

Fedoroff smiled. The expression was as forced as the prior noise had been. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I am not breaking down in the brain either.” He reached for the bottle, then withdrew his arm. “I am not even glugging myself into a stupor. It is nothing except a… what do the Americans call it? …a glow.”

“Glows are best in company,” Lindgren declared. After a moment: “I believe I will accept that drink.”

Fedoroff gave her the bottle and joined her on the bedside. She raised it to him. “Skal.” A scant amount went down her throat. She returned the bottle, and he gave her “Zdoroviye.” They sat in silence, Fedoroff gazing at the bulkhead, until he stirred and said:

“Very well. Since you must know. I wouldn’t tell anyone else, especially not a woman. But I have come to learn something about you, Ingrid… Gunnar’s daughter, is that correct?”

“Yes, Boris Ilyitch.”

He gave her a glance and a more nearly genuine smile. She sat relaxed, body curving out her coverall, a hint of warmth and human odor around her. “I believe—” his tongue fumbled— “I hope you will understand, and not repeat what I tell you.”

“I promise the silence. For understanding, I can try.”

He put elbows on knees, hands straining against each other. “It is personal, you see,” he said slowly and not quite evenly. “Yet no great matter. I will be over it soon. It is simple… that final cast we received… upset me.”

“The music?”

“Yes. Music. Signal-to-noise ratio too low for television. Almost too low for sound. The last we will get, Ingrid Gunnar’s daughter, before we reach goal and start receiving messages a generation old. I am certain it was the last. Those few minutes, wavering, fading in and out, scarcely to hear through the fire-crackle of stars and cosmic rays— when we lost that music, I knew we would get no more.”

Fedoroff’s voice trailed off. Lindgren waited.

He shook himself. “It happened to be a Russian cradle song,” he said. “My mother sang me to sleep with it.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder and let it rest, feather-light.

“Do not think I am off on an orgy of self-pity,” he added in haste. “For a short while I remember my dead too well. It will pass.”

“Maybe I do understand,” she murmured.

He was on his second interstellar trip. He had gone to Delta Pavonis. Probe data indicated an Earthlike planet, and the expedition left with flying hopes. The reality was so nightmarish that the survivors showed rare heroism in remaining and studying for the minimum planned time. On their return, they had experienced twelve years; but Earth had aged forty-three.