The ship is clearly decelerating. Even I am aware of the reduction of motion. Stars appear in the window, the dust departs as we shift down from our enormous speed. We will be landing soon. Liquids in certain cabinets of the ship begin to ooze in prepara­tion; the walls become slick with moisture. Buffer zones are being set up, it seems, for the atmospheric reentry. Now and then I go to the forward window, many hundreds of yards from here, where the best view is available of our destination. Now I see our planet.

It is a large planet, blotched in red and gray, turning slowly in the refractory light of two suns. The suns are at a greater dis­tance; barely larger than stars, they appear to circle one another. On our planet, one sees suggestions of gases, a hint of activity; a sense of forms shuttling busily underneath this layer. “It’s beau­tiful,” I say to Nala who has come to look with me, “it’s beautiful.”

“That’s because you don’t understand it.”

“What is it like, if you remember? Tell me.”

She smiles.