"Tell me, Mister Carter, why didn't the ship fall apart?" asked Miss Rose, sitting with him in the observation lounge. Her face was illuminated by the flickering light of distant stars. All around, as far as the eye could see, stretched the black void of space, studded with countless lights like a diamond-strewn desert.
"Modern interstellar liners," Carter replied, "are equipped with autonomous sections and emergency force shields. In case of a hull breach, only part of the ship is depressurized, with the damage contained. And if the structural damage isn't critical, the ship can remain intact even with serious breaches."
"But then why did everyone run to the escape pods?"
"No one could say if the ship would withstand another strike. Look at the readings: there's a breach in the bow section, and the automated systems have locked down access. The engine control systems are damaged. Artificial gravity is still working, but it's glitching, causing this permanent list. It's not exactly convenient walking on tilted decks, but it's still better than floating in a spacesuit in open space. We got off lightly. The ship still has vast reserves of food and water in the regeneration cycles. And if we haven't drifted too far from the regular shipping lanes, we might encounter another vessel soon."
Yet days passed, and the black void remained just as dead. Pompeo had stared himself blind at all the long-range observation screens, peering into the cosmic distance.
The days flowed into one another, merging into a monotonous sequence where the only measure of time was the shift of artificial lighting cycles in the liner's corridors. This monotony was agonizing—each new day was an exact copy of the last.
Their small society quickly found refuge in the unimaginable luxury of the abandoned vessel. Miss Rose took up the lavish upper-deck suite that was booked for her father. It was a veritable residence with its own bedroom, living room, mini-kitchen, and even a hydro-massage capsule. The adjacent suite, no less extravagant, was immediately claimed by Jack Pompeo. His choice was no accident—the two-level apartment with its huge orthopedic bed and a panoramic viewport above it, opening onto the star-studded canvas of space, seemed to him a fitting compensation for all the terror he'd endured.
However, Pompeo's aristocratic pretensions shattered against the demands of daily life. Accustomed to a service staff, he proved utterly helpless with housekeeping. Within a week, his luxurious quarters began to resemble the back room of a liquor store. The bed was smeared with sauces from canned pâtés he devoured while watching the ship's library of holofilms, and the carpet was littered with shards of crystal glasses broken in drunken stupors. Instead of cleaning up, Pompeo took the simpler route: he abandoned the mess and moved into the next untouched suite. Thus, drifting through unclaimed luxury cabins, he left a trail of chaos and empty bottles in his wake.
Carter, a man of a different make, settled for a modest but functional engineer's cabin. It was kept in exemplary, almost Spartan cleanliness. He spent his free time—of which there was an abundance—in the ship's workshop, tinkering with mechanisms, calibrating sensors, and crafting useless but elegant trinkets from scraps of titanium and copper. For him, this was not merely a fight against boredom, but a necessity to keep his own mind and hands in order.
And it was Alice Rose who, imperceptibly to all, became the gravitational center and mistress of this small world. She voluntarily took on the duties required by their survival: she distributed rations from the giant storage holds, monitored life support system reports, and, most importantly, maintained an island of comfort. This island was not the giant, chrome-plated restaurant meant for a hundred people, which radiated an icy loneliness, but the small crew lounge. In the evenings, they invariably gathered there around a single table, dubbing the place "the salon." Here, in this intimate circle, over a cup of aromatic tea synthesized by the coffee machine, they could briefly forget they were in the heart of a vast, silent ghost ship carrying them to nowhere. And on "weekends," to somehow separate them from the endless routine of weekdays, all three would retreat to the observation dome. It was their shared sanctuary. A small, cozy room bathed in the shimmering light of distant suns, where the silence was not oppressive but majestic. They would climb onto soft cushion-chairs, lean back their heads, and silently gaze into the blackness dusted with diamond powder.
The difficult question of how to conduct herself in this new, alien society resolved itself somehow. She treated Pompeo with good-natured irony, while simple, friendly relations were established with Carter. More than that, Carter intrigued her with the mystery of his fate. Out of a sense of tact, she not only never asked Carter about his past but wouldn't allow Pompeo to speak of it either, although the detective had tried more than once, in Carter's absence, to tell of his "crime."
They conversed willingly with each other during the hours designated as evening by ship's time. Pompeo haunted the bridge, staring at scanner readings, searching for a signal from another ship as a harbinger of rescue and his promised bounty.
From these conversations, Miss Rose could see that her interlocutor was educated, tactful, and well-mannered. Conversations with the witty Miss Rose also seemed to give Carter pleasure. She reminisced about her travels through the Colonial Worlds and amused him with unexpected observations.
"The Demeter Resort Belt? It's a giant aquarium for tourists. I've toured half the sector myself, but I detest those gum-chewing bipeds with a guide-tablet instead of a tail. They've sensor-scanned every last blade of grass."
"The volcanoes of Io? A sort of pygmy that puffs out sulfur plumes and puts on airs. Have you seen the chasms on Titan? The Abarat Ridges, the Gorges of Sorrow—*that's* scale. I won't even mention the ice giants of the Kuiper Belt. Io is a mere hillock compared to them."
"Orbital Station *Venice*? Only amphibians could live there. A hydro-drone guide took me through the main dock-tunnels, eager to show off all the atriums, holograms, and other faded beauties. But I ordered him to take me to one of the technical districts. I wanted to see how the station's own inhabitants lived. It's awful, you know. The tunnels are so narrow you could shake hands with a mechanic in the next airlock. The air in the compartments smells of ozone and burnt metal. They've never seen real sunlight. And the children, poor children! They have nowhere to play. Pale, with eyes too old for their faces, they cling to handrails in cramped cubbies, risking being sucked into a ventilation shaft, and gaze wistfully at passing shuttles. I'm not even sure they know how to walk properly in gravity."
"But what *did* you like in the System?.."
Their conversation was interrupted in the most unexpected manner:
"Hands up!"
They turned and saw Pompeo before them, an impulse pistol aimed at Carter's chest.
The detective had been eavesdropping on their conversations for some time, hoping Carter might let something slip about his crime. Convinced of the conversation's innocence, Pompeo decided to make an entrance in a new role.
"Miss Rose," he began pompously, "my duty as an officer and as an honest man compels me to warn you of the danger. I can no longer allow these private tête-à-têtes. I must warn you, Miss Rose, that Carter is a dangerous criminal. And dangerous primarily to women. He ruined a young lady, first ensnaring her in a web of his eloquence. Ruined her, then fled, but was caught by me, Jack Pompeo," he finished, looking with pride at the effect he had produced.
It must be said the effect was not quite what he had expected.
Miss Rose was indeed confused, agitated, and offended—but more by his sudden and rude intrusion than by his speech.
And Ilon Carter bore no resemblance to a criminal exposed and cornered. With his usual calm, he walked up to Pompeo. Ignoring the leveled barrel, after a brief struggle, he wrenched the pistol away, tossed it aside, and said quietly:
"You obviously think the ten thousand credits promised to you for the pleasure certain parties would get from seeing me in a penal cell is not enough. Only Miss Rose's presence is stopping me from dealing with you properly!"
It was Miss Rose who ended the quarrel.
"Give me your word," she said, stepping toward them and addressing Pompeo more than Carter, "that there will be no repeat of such scenes. Do not worry about me, Mister Pompeo, I do not require a guardian. Save your grievances for when we set foot on solid ground. There are three of us here—just three in the boundless cosmos. Who knows what still lies ahead for us? Perhaps each of us will be needed by the others in a moment of danger. It's time to turn in. Good night!"
Having settled on this, they dispersed to their cabins.