No doubting the origin of Ferry’s question. Ship’s godhead remained an open question with many. There had been a time when Ship was the ship, of course. Everyone knew that from the history which Ship taught. Ship had been a vehicle for mortal intelligence once. The ship had existed in the limited dimensions which any human could sense, and it had known a destination. It also had known a history of madness and violence. Then . . . the ship had encountered the Holy Void, that reservoir of chaos against which all beings were required to measure themselves.

Ship’s history was cloudy with migrations and hints at a paradise planet somewhere awaiting humankind.

But Ferry was revealed as one of the doubters, one who questioned Ship’s version of history. Such doubts thrived because Ship did not censure them. The only time Panille had referred to the doubts, Ship had responded clearly and with a creative style to inspire a poet.

“What is the purpose of doubts, Panille?”

“To test data.”

“Can you test this historical data with your doubts?”

That required thought and Panille answered after a long pause. “You are my only source.”

“Have I ever given you false data?”

“I’ve found no falsehoods.”

“Does that silence these doubts?”

“No.”

“Then what can you do with such doubts?”

That involved more careful thought and a longer pause before answering. “I put them aside until a moment arrives when they may be tested.”

“Does that change your relationship with Me?”

“Relationships change constantly.”

“Ahhh, I cherish the company of poets.”

Panille was shaken out of this memory by the realization that Ferry had spoken to him several times.

“I said, ‘Wha’s’s?”

Panille looked at the object in Ferry’s hand.

“It was my mother’s comb.”

“The stuff! The material?”

“Tortoise shell. It came from Earth.”

There was no mistaking the avaricious glint in Ferry’s eyes. “Well . . . I dunno about this.”

“It’s a keepsake from my mother, one of the few things I have left. If you take it I’ll lodge a formal complaint with Ship.”

Ferry betrayed definite anger, his eyes squinted, his hand trembled with the comb. But his gaze strayed to the silver net. He knew the stories about this poet; this one talked to the ship in the quiet of the night and the ship answered.

Once more, Ferry made a notation within the shielded secrecy of his com-console, then delivered himself of his longest speech: “You’re assigned groundside to Waela TaoLini and it serves you right. There’s a freighter waiting in Fifty-B. Take it. She’ll meet you groundside.”