“I’d judge this galaxy we’re aimed for isn’t that far along yet. But it’s getting there. It’s getting there.”

Boudreau pondered. “Then we won’t gain as much speed per galaxy as we did before,” he said. “Not if the interstellar gas and dust are being used up.”

“True,” Foxe-Jameson said. “Don’t fret. I’m sure ample will remain for our purposes. Every bit doesn’t get collected in stars. Besides, we have the intergalactic medium, the intercluster, the interfamilial— thin, that, but usable at our present tau— and eventaully we should be getting work out of the interclan gas itself.”

He clapped the navigator’s back in friendly wise. “We’ve come about three hundred megaparsecs now, remember,” he said. “Which means about a thousand million years of time. You’ve got to expect some changes.”

Boudreau was less accustomed to astronomical concepts. “You mean,” he whispered, “the whole universe is growing enough older for us to notice?” It was the first time since his early youth that he had crossed himself.

The door to the interview room was shut. Chi-Yuen hesitated before pressing the chime button. When Lindgren let her in, she said timidly, “They told me you were here alone.”

“Writing.” The first officer stood somewhat slumped; nonetheless she topped the planetologist by a head. “A private place.”

“I hate to disturb you.”

“What I’m for, Ai-Ling. Sit down.” Lindgren went back behind her desk, which was covered with scrawled-on papers. The cabin hummed and trembled to irregular acceleration. More than a day of weight remained. Leonora Christine was bound through a clan of unprecedented size and opulence.

For a while, hope had lived that this might be the one where the ship could reach a halt within some member galaxy. Closer observation showed otherwise. Inverse tau had gotten too immense.

A faction had argued at general assembly that there ought to be limited deceleration anyhow, in order that requirements for stopping inside the next clan be less rigorous. One could not prove the contention wrong; not that much cosmography was known. One could only use statistics, as Nilsson and Chidambaran did, to prove that the likelihood of finding a resting place seemed greater if acceleration continued. The theorem was too involved for most persons to follow. The ship’s officers elected to take it on faith and maintain full forward thrust. Reymont had had to quell some individuals whose objections approached mutiny.

Chi-Yuen perched herself on the edge of a visitors’ chair. She was small and neat in high-collared red tunic, broad white slacks, hair brushed back with unwonted severity and held by an ivory comb. Lindgren contrasted in more than size. Her shirt was open at the neck, rolled up at the sleeves, smudged here and there; her hair was tousled, her eyes haunted.

“What are you writing, if I may ask?” Chi-Yuen ventured.

“A sermon,” Lindgren said. “Not easy. I’m no writer.”

“You, a sermon?”

The left corner of Lindgren’s mouth twitched slightly upward. “Actually the captain’s address at our Midsummer Day festivities. He can still conduct divine service, after a fashion. But for this he requested me to, ah, inspirit the troops in his name.”