“Our lust for routine is constant,” I say to Nala while we are reposing on our beds in midday. “If there were no enclosure we would, perhaps, have to create one; we have been captives that long.”

“It is not as you think,” she says, not opening her eyes. “Not as you think.”

“Yes. It is simple. It is evident.”

“You trust your senses too much. You must go beyond your senses, Quir.”

“I have.”

“No you have not. You understand only what is given as reality and struggle with it. You have no taste for irony, for im­plications of behavior, for the workings behind the scenes that give you what you call reality. But no more. I’m tired.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say. “If I did not see reality we would not be here. It is my understanding—”

“Please Quir,” she says. “No more. I am tired. I want to rest. Anything you say is just. But let me be. I care for you, Quir; isn’t that enough?” She sleeps. She has cultivated that ability. She can go to sleep instantly and under any circumstances. Once she told me that this had something to do with her “recovering her past.” But more than that she will not tell me.

“Our lust for routine is constant,” I say to the empty room, addressing the imperceptibly shaking walls, “if there were no enclosure we would, perhaps, have to create one; we have been captives that long.”

No one answers. I put the thought in my journal for later reference and turn to look out a window. As always there is noth­ing to see; a hint of constellation, a glaze of dust that we were told would be stars if our speed were reduced. The engines are powerful; they accelerate constantly, they pull us at many times the speed of light across the unimaginably far distance that sep­arates our world from theirs.