He was grinning now, rubbing the faint golden stubble on his chin. “But do you say much? I have such a hard time figuring you out.”

Ditto, Park wanted to say—an embarrassingly dated term that she knew he would laugh at. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to laugh at her or not. She stole a quick look at his hand, resting on his knee: it was tan and broad and strong, and honest somehow. She said, to prove him wrong, “When I was younger, I was afraid of going into space.”

Fulbreech looked at her, surprised. “Why was that?”

“I don’t know,” Park admitted. “It was—too dark for me. Too empty. I was used to crowds of people, like in the domes.”

“Interesting. But you’re used to it now?”

“I’m well-adjusted.” As if that was accurate. But she couldn’t think of anything else to say; she’d reached the end of her conversational props. She couldn’t even talk about the weather, because there was no weather on the ship. “You mentioned New York,” she said finally, a little desperately.

“Right,” Fulbreech said. He leaned back and stared up at the office’s gray ceiling, as if viewing some invisible projection up there. “There’s a famous art gallery there. I can’t remember the name. Something French. My father took my brother and me when we were teens. I can give you the address sometime.”

He was very optimistic, Park thought to herself, thinking of disaster, of Holt and Ma—but she decided to try her hand at the game. “Or you could just take me there yourself.”

Fulbreech’s eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

“I assume you’re coming back to Earth when the mission is done.”

Fulbreech’s face went blank. It was momentary, but Park saw it: confusion, and then shame. Quickly he hid it, but in that moment Park felt such a hatred of him that even the dumb peaceful glow of the MAD faded a little, burning at the ends like a cigarette. He was too attractive, she decided; it annoyed her. His jawline was absurd. The scraps of stubble, deliberate, vain. And the boyishness, the goodness—it was a front. She was half-convinced that ISF had put him in her way as a means to test her.

“Of course,” Fulbreech said slowly. Constructing a lie. “But I might have to hop off before then—maybe when we resupply at Corvus. They may want me to consult with the researchers there.”

“Of course,” Park echoed. Her lips felt stiff as she spoke. She noticed that his leg was close to hers, under the table that separated them. She moved hers away. Liar.

Fulbreech looked away from her. “That gallery,” he said finally, after a moment of heavy silence. “There was this amazing statue in it. I want you to see it someday—you remind me of it. Or it reminds me of you.”