Toward evening I saw a trail of smoke to the east of me. Downriver. I stood and grinned at the narrow line—like the stroke of a pencil. I had company. I’d wait another day. Keep my fire burning. If no one came to me, I’d head downriver.

I wondered briefly who had made the fire. Was it one of my comrades or someone else? A solitary hunter. A group of women on a journey. Traders from the Amber People.

There was no point in constructing theories. I had no real information. I did my yoga, then meditated, looking at the smoke.

Dinner was a piece of fruit. I slept badly, troubled by indigestion.

The morning was overcast. I could feel rain in the air. Damn! I looked east. There was no sign of the other fire. Maybe they had let it go out overnight. Maybe the smoke was invisible against the low gray sky.

I checked my trap—it was empty again—dug up the biped and used another piece for bait. Then I checked my menstrual pad. No sign of blood. I ought to be able to swim across the river. I took the pad off and buried it and then rebuilt my fire.

Midway through the morning, the rain began. It was fine and misty. My fire kept burning, but who was going to see it? The eastern shore of the river was dim. I cursed whoever was in charge of the weather. The four winds. Those unruly men! I prayed to Guan Yin, though I didn’t remember that she had anything to do with meteorology, and I asked the Mother of Mothers to straighten out her grandsons.

“And do something about the Little Bug Spirit, if you can.”

Maybe I was getting a little crazy. I didn’t usually talk to spirits. My stomach grumbled. I decided the fruit was the problem. I needed meat or a vegetable. I drank a little water and checked my trap. The bait was still there.

At noon the boat came into view: a launch with a cabin and good-sized engine. It was moving slowly upriver through the rain.

I put on my jeans and gathered my belongings: the knife, the lighter, my half-unraveled sock. I ought to put the fire out. But how? It was pretty big. I’d let the others worry about it. I went down to the shore and waved and shouted.

The person at the stern waved in reply. The boat turned toward me. I waded into the water.

The person was dressed in olive-green. A member of the crew. In theory there were no uniforms on the ship. But the crewmembers tended to dress alike: olive-green denim pants and olive-green pullover sweaters, soft caps with brims, olive-green or black.

I waded farther out, right to the edge of the drop-off. The boat came in, moving increasingly slowly. Ivanova. I recognized her squat, broad body. I was being rescued by the chief pilot of the I.S.S. Number One.

Someone else came out of the cabin, taller than Ivanova and broader, dressed in jeans and a blue denim jacket. His shirt was red. His hair was long and black, worn loose. It flowed over his shoulders. Edward Antoine Whirlwind, Ph.D.

The boat stopped next to me. Eddie reached down and pulled me onboard. He hugged me. “Lixia! Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” I held on to him. I was shaking, and I felt as if my knees were going to give way.

“Get her inside,” said Ivanova. Her voice—as always—took me by surprise. It was a rich contralto, which ought to have belonged to an actress or a singer. “Tell Agopian to get out here. We need to do something about the fire.”

A moment later I was in the cabin. There was a carpet under my bare feet. Eddie helped me into a chair. I leaned back and felt the fabric through my shirt: a rough texture, most likely handmade.

My arms rested on the arms of the chair. I curled my fingers under and felt metal tubing. How long had it been since I had sat like this—up, off the ground, in a chair with a back? I did not remember.

Eddie leaned over me, looking concerned. There were other people behind him. A crewwoman with a Central Asian face. A crewman who looked vaguely Middle Eastern. A tall blond man in a pair of light-blue coveralls.

The blond man grinned at me and made the gesture that meant “welcome.”

Derek.

Eddie spoke to the crew people, and they left.

Derek said, “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Eddie, you’re looming.”

“Sorry.”

They sat down. I looked at Derek. “How are you? What happened? Do you know what happened to the others?”

He made the gesture that indicated lack of knowledge. “I ended by myself. You must have, too.”

“Yes.”

“I lost the boat as soon as it went over and caught hold of a tree that was hung up in the rapids.” He grinned. “There I was—in the middle of white water, holding on to this damn tree trunk and wondering what to do next. I saw no one. I have no idea what happened to the others.”

“What did you do?”

“It wasn’t a good place for swimming. I was pretty sure of that. And I haven’t had any experience with white-water swimming. I worked the tree free and floated out of the rapids.”

I made the gesture that meant “good” or “clever.”

“That’s what I thought until I found out how hard it is to steer a tree. Especially this one. It was very badly designed—for navigation, anyway. It may have done just fine in its previous line of work.” Derek glanced at Eddie. “I’ll tell you the rest later.”

Eddie leaned forward. “Are you certain that you’re all right, Lixia?”

“Nothing hurts. I have no injuries. I’m tired, and I’m going to want to eat pretty soon, but not at this moment.”

“Okay.” He stood. “I have to talk to Ivanova. There are decisions to be made, and she’ll make them on her own if I don’t get out there quickly. Derek, you take care of Lixia.”

“To hear is to obey.”

“Cut the crap.”

Eddie left the cabin. I looked around, seeing curved walls and oval windows. The carpet on the floor was a neutral color: gray or tan. All the furniture looked as if it folded or disassembled or turned into something else. The couches along the walls, for example. They obviously became beds. The little tables between them folded into the walls. Our chairs had hinges. I was in a home for nomads. It occurred to me that I was spending my entire life traveling.

“I have my orders,” Derek said. “What do you need? Or want?”

“Nothing yet. Give me a minute.”

He made the gesture of acquiescence.

I closed my eyes. Time passed. The sound of the engine changed. I opened my eyes and stood. The boat was moving away from my island. The beach—my beach—was empty. People had been there. I saw their footprints in the sand, and my fire was covered with yellow foam. The foam was melting in the rain, dripping off the branches and forming a pool of yellowish water. Blobs of foam floated in the pool.

Ugly!

We passed the tangle of driftwood, heading upstream toward the rapids.

“Where are we going?”

Derek made the gesture that indicated lack of knowledge.

The short man—Agopian—came into the cabin. He closed the door. “Ivanova has asked me to look after you. She is having an argument with Eddie.”

“About what?”

“Whether to look for your companions. Eddie says no, as you might expect. Ivanova says a cosmonaut does not refuse to look for people who might be alive and in trouble. In space we have only each other. What can I do for you?”

I made a decision. “Food.”

“We don’t have a proper kitchen. I can offer you a sandwich.”

“Okay.”

He crossed the cabin, aft to fore, and went through another door. A light went on, and I saw him crouching, looking into something: a cooling unit. “We have egg salad, caviar, onion and tomato, and something that claims to be chopped chicken liver on Russian black bread.”

I made the gesture of inquiry. He looked puzzled. I said, “What do you mean ‘claims’?”

“I am Armenian, and Armenians have long memories. I remember the taste of Russian black bread. We have given up a lot in order to go to the stars.”

True enough. I made the gesture of agreement.