Although the expedition members could technically do whatever they wanted when they were off duty, getting drunk was still not a common behavior on the ship. For one thing, alcohol took up precious space and mass; for another, it was so easy to dehydrate yourself with it, trapped as they were in a vacuum that wicked moisture from your eyes every time you blinked. It tended to take extreme circumstances to push someone to get drunk, especially openly, in front of the judging eyes of Earth-born academics and spacers who had long had access to faster-burning, trendier drugs. Park wondered what had gotten to Natalya—what had driven her to this state. A little bitterly she thought that it could be any number of things: everything seemed to be going wrong with this mission. Maybe she’d have turned to the bottle by now, too, if alcohol hadn’t been so scarce back on Earth.

Natalya pretended not to notice Park as she walked up. She read agitation in the lines of the surveyor’s shoulders: anger and suspicion and resentment, too. Natalya’s topology reminded Park of Chanur, in a way—but what had soured Natalya’s mood so? Surely it wasn’t because of Holt? They’d once been lovers, yes, but Natalya had long since discarded the physicist in favor of pursuing—who was it, again? Fulbreech? Park had lost track.

“Something bothering you, Severov?” she asked, bracing herself.

The other woman straightened out of her pirouette and turned to look back over her shoulder. Her glance was moody, disdainful. “I thought Sagara told you to stop your patient sessions.”

Had everyone been told that? God damn Sagara—he was undermining her at every turn. “This isn’t an interview,” Park answered, steadily enough. “Or a patient session. I just thought I’d ask.”

“Why?”

“Why are you doing cartwheels in this part of the ship?”

Outside Boone’s room, she thought. And Wick’s. Unkindly she thought to herself—Maybe she’s just working her way up the ladder.

She quashed the idea just as Natalya said frostily, “This is how I unwind after work. Is that a crime?”

“No,” Park answered. “Of course not.”

She thought to give up the gesture entirely and simply walk away, but Natalya had put her leg up against the opposite wall, blocking the narrow corridor with her body. Her body language was languid, nonchalant—as if she hadn’t noticed that Park intended to pass—but Park knew that it was a calculated move, an intimidation tactic. Or even a kind of threat. I’m too tired for this, she thought. She still hadn’t slept yet. Natalya took a drink from her hip flask and smacked her lips.