He thought on the edge of that desired sleep of Jorge Rabbit's bruised body, and what it had once held: language and laughter and sharp reliability, a favorite of the children. The crew.

Jorge Rabbit and the others might soon be in the air they breathed, the food and water they took in. But not William or Theresa.

Martin reached out for Theresa's hand. He could almost feel it, his fingers brushing the air where it would be, faintest rasp of sensation. Then, deliberately, he withdrew his hand and folded it under his chest. "Goodbye," he whispered, and slept.

Behind the Dawn Treader, the corpse of Wormwood expanded as a many-colored vapor, like milk swirling in water and illuminated by many lights.

"'Hakim watched the stellar corpse with cold curiosity, arms folded. Beside the image in the star sphere scrolled and flashed figures, charts, condensed images, conveying the qualities of the corpse in an interstellar autopsy of incredible depth and complexity.

"If I were back on Earth now," he told Martin, "I would be an astronomer, but never in my life would I see something like this. Where would I rather be, do you think? Here, now, seeing this, or…?"

"You'd rather be on Earth," Martin said. They were alone in the nose; the rest of the crew awaited the end of Hans' self-imposed week of isolation, going through their own isolations, their own regroupings, reassessments.

Hakim agreed. His face had changed since the Skirmish, as Erin Eire called their costly victory. His expression had hardened, eyes shining brighter, perpetual smile tighter, lines more deeply grooved around his lips and eyes.

"It was a fair exchange, perhaps," Hakim said. "How many Ships of the Law were trapped by Wormwood and destroyed?"

"We were lucky," Martin said. "The trap was getting rusty."

"You know as well as I, war is a matter of luck as much as strategy. We should not deny ourselves satisfaction because we came upon a weakened enemy."

"We don't know the enemyis weak," Martin said. "They might still be strong."

"Then why do they hide behind traps?"

"To avoid trouble. Maybe this was no more significant to them than the loss of a bug zapper in a front yard."

Hakim's smile curled wickedly. "I like this metaphor," he said. "We are mosquitoes, but we bring yellow fever… And now the bug zapper is down, we fly freely toward the house…"

"About to join with a group of moths," Martin suggested.

"I would prefer wasps." Hakim chuckled, and then suddenly his voice caught and he turned away. "Excuse me," he said, clearing his throat.

"Someone you loved," Martin said after a moment. He had never followed Hakim's romantic affairs, partly out of respect, partly because Hakim and his partners had always been extremely circumspect.

"It was hard for me to call it love," Hakim said. "Min Giao Monsoon. She was my equal, and I couldn't… I didn't know how to digest that. But she was very important to me. We were not very open." For an instant, Hakim showed simple and enormous pain.

Martin watched the beautiful display, greens and reds dominating, cinders of planets visible only in the graphs and enhancements at this distance. Spirals of plasma from the poles had quickly spread and whipped in arcs to encompass a vast sphere; the artificial fields that controlled Wormwood giving way and rearranging in the violence. Wormwood's corpse had finally assumed an aspect of natural star death. Perhaps that had been planned by the Killers, as well…

No need to light any brighter a beacon in the forest than absolutely necessary.

"However you loved, you loved," Martin said.

Hakim agreed to that with a measured nod. "I have high hopes that our new Pan will grow into his position." He spoke quietly, as if Hans might be listening.

"It's not easy."

"There are many challenges even before we get to our destination. I wonder how I will react to new and inhuman colleagues… perhaps better to say nonhuman."

"The ship and the mom don't know an awful lot about them," Martin said. "Otherwise they'd tell us more."

"I agree," Hakim said. "I have never believed the moms hold things back from us."

"Oh…" Martin said, "I wouldn't go that far. They always tell us what we need to know, but…"

"Pardon my saying so, but you sound like Ariel."

Martin scowled. "Please," he said.

"Not to offend," Hakim added with a touch of his old impish-ness.

Rosa Sequoia sat in the cafeteria among a group of twenty-two of the crew, conducting a ceremony for the dead, following— as far as Martin could tell—her own rules and her own rituals. He could not object; ritual was healthy at this point.

She had made up hymns or borrowed from old songs and projected lyrics for the crew to sing. Martin watched from the outside, near the door, and did not sing, but felt his heart tug at the swell of voices.

Rosa looked up, and her eyes met his, and she smiled—broadly, without resentment; beautifully.

In our grief and pain, she finds herself, he thought. But perhaps that was too unkind.

Hans came out of his isolation after six days, somber and unshaven, blond beard bristling and face wreathed in a dreary scowl that gave nobody confidence, least of all Martin. He asked for a private session with Hakim and the remains of the search team. After, he emerged from the nose to brush past Martin and Erin Eire in the corridor, saying nothing.

"He hasn't taken a lover since he became Pan," Erin said.

Martin looked at her. "So?"

Erin blinked. "So it's unusual. He's not exactly been chaste, Martin. A lot of Wendys go for bulk over brains."

"He's not stupid," Martin said.

"He's still acting like a jerk," Erin said.

"Maybe he's waiting for the right girl to come along," Martin said, aware how silly that sounded.

Erin hooted. "Oh, sure. Somebody he's never met before."

"We'll have visitors soon," Martin said, face straight.

"Spare me," Erin said, grimacing over her shoulder as she departed.

Ariel laid her meal tray on the table across from Martin in the cafeteria. New watch schedules posted by Hans had placed her in an opposite sleep cycle; he was having dinner, she breakfast, but the food appeared much the same.

The ship was not yet up to the broad variety of meals it had once offered; what they were served now was bland but filling, a brownish bread-like pudding varied occasionally by soups.

They exchanged minimal greetings. Ariel made him uncomfortable by focusing on him when he wasn't looking.

"What do you think of Hans now?" she asked when their eyes met.

"He's doing fine," Martin said.

"Better than you?" she asked.

"In some ways," Martin said.

"How? I'm curious. I don't mean to embarrass you."

"I'm not embarrassed. He's probably more canny than I am, more sensitive to the crew's swings of mood."

She tipped her head in a way that implied neither agreement nor disagreement.

"And you?" he asked.

"Reserving judgment. He is more canny than some Pans we've had. Rosa approves of him. She talks about the duty to our leader in her sermons."

"Sermons?"

"I haven't been to one, but I hear about them."

"She's preaching?"

"Not yet," Ariel said, "but close. She's counseling. Helping some of the crew face up to the Skirmish and what it means."