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If the Preservationists did achieve their goal, the possibilities offered by the novo-vacuum need not be lost forever. Whatever was learned in the process of destroying it might open up the prospect of re-creating it, in a safer, more controlled fashion. In a few tens of millennia, there could be a whole new universe on their doorstep again, but this time it would pose no threat to anyone. No one would be forced from their homes. No one would be made to choose between exile and adaptation.

And in a few tens of millennia, how much tighter would the deadening spiral of familiarity have wound itself? If the nine-thousand-year history of Zapata was too precious to lose, after ninety thousand years every tradition, every grain of sand on every inhabited planet, would be positively sanctified.

Still, those who believed they were being smothered could always flee, as he’d fled Turaev. Those who were happy sleepwalking into eternity could stay. He had no right to force this cusp on anyone.

He didn’t have the right, but he didn’t have the power either, nor did he aspire to it. He was only here to state an unpopular case, and see if anyone could be swayed. If he believed that the novo-vacuum offered the greatest wealth of opportunities the species had faced since leaving Earth, what else would it be but cowardice and dishonesty if he failed to argue against its destruction?

The cabin was beginning to feel less spacious by the minute. He left it and made his way around the ship, heading for the garden. He still felt jittery on the walkways, but his confidence was slowly improving.

The garden was almost deserted. He found a bench that faced away from the border, offering a view he could take in without vertigo. The reel of the blue polar stars was slow enough to be soothing, and with the foliage to break up their perfect arcs the whole sight seemed less mechanical.

The Doppler shift was a novelty to him, but the motion of the stars was familiar. The night sky on Turaev had looked just like this, during a mild Slowdown. The only thing missing was the sun, rising and setting with each turn.

He’d stood by the crib that would prepare his body for storage, and his mind for transmission. It had asked him to state his wishes on the eventual recycling of this, his birth flesh. His father had pleaded gently, "We could still wait for you. For a thousand years, if that’s what you need. Say the word, and it will happen. You don’t have to lose anything."

Someone passing glanced his way, curious at the sight of an unfamiliar passenger. Their Mediators interacted, and the stranger requested an introduction. Tchicaya hadn’t asked not to be interrupted, and he allowed the exchange of information to proceed. Protocols were established, translators verified, mutually acceptable behavior delineated. There were no local customs to defer to, here, so their Mediators virtually flipped a coin to decide the manner in which they should greet each other.

"I don’t believe we’ve met. My name’s Sophus."

Tchicaya stood and gave his own name, and they touched each other lightly on the left shoulder. "I’ve only been here a day," he explained. "It’s my first time off-planet; I’m still adjusting."

"Do you mind if I join you? I’m waiting for someone, and this is the nicest spot to do it."

"You’d be welcome."

They sat on the bench. Tchicaya asked, "Who are you waiting for?"

"Someone who’ll usurp your present role as most junior arrival. In fact, technically, I suppose she’s already done that, but she’s not yet in a state to show herself and claim the position."

Tchicaya smiled at the memory of his own appearance in the crib. "Two arrivals in as many days?" That wouldn’t have been so strange if someone had been following him from Pachner, but he hadn’t come across anyone there who’d shared his travel plans. "They’ll be running out of bodies if this keeps up. We’ll have to squeeze the ex-acorporeals right into the ship’s processors."

Sophus frowned, mock-reprovingly. "Hey, no discrimination, please! It’s up to them to volunteer, not us to suggest it."

"The way they offered to share those cabins, to make room for new arrivals?"

Sophus nodded, apparently amused by the gesture. Tchicaya felt a twinge of unease, unsure whether he had just endeared himself to Sophus with some remarks that had been taken as evidence of bigotry, or whether he was just being hypersensitive. He wondered how long it would take Sophus to quiz him about his allegiance; either the answer had spread through the grapevine already, or Sophus was polite enough to make small talk for a while, and see if he could extract the information indirectly.