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but ribbons of coloured light.

    “We are in Plangyo.”

    Plangyo. I had first seen the name four months ago, on my work contract. It was hard to believe I was actually here. I stared at the viewscreens with a new intensity.

    Mr. Zik, noticing this, slowed down. Storefronts selling unknown products represented by mysterious colourful pictures. A building with a crest on the gates and a guardhouse that could have been an army base or city hall. A block of apartments, with kid-sized saucers tied to the balconies.

    We turned into a small apartment building and parked. Mr. Zik lowered the ramp and gracefully left the saucer with a kind of skipping lope. I stood carefully and followed, hanging on to the handrails and getting my sea feet, appreciating the reversal of our comfort levels.

    Most people I talk to back home are under the painfully ignorant assumption (painful for me too, since these people are my friends and I expect better from them) that the atmosphere of Octavia is the same as the oceans of Earth were before the draining, except you can breathe in it. And I have to say, “No, look, it’s got stronger gravity. It’s almost exactly half-way between swimming and walking.” Really, though, it’s incredible how much Earthlings don’t know.

    I was walking so slowly that the ramp started to retract before I got to the bottom. Mr. Zik started fumbling for his key chain but I jumped — enjoying my slow movement through the atmosphere — and landed on my feet, socks squelching.

    He led me into the apartment and turned the light on. There were a few pieces of furniture there, which I was happy about, because we were warned that we were guaranteed an apartment but not necessarily furnishings.

    “I’m sorry, blut I must go now. Tonight, I will come black and help you clean the aplartment,” Mr. Zik said.

    I wandered into the bedroom. The bed was a simple single, but that night my wearied brain couldn’t have seen a finer object.

    “Tonight I will be asleep. In that bed.” I said, pointing demonstratively.

    “Yes, of course, you are very, very tired,” said Mr. Zik, and his hiss-laugh. “Call me for anything, even a small thing.” He left, pulling the door shut behind him.

    I took off my clothes and was in bed before they had floated to the floor.

    ***

    “Flsfjhas lsfheriheu fjshflahdoe Sam Breen. Fheoi ejkthjad goirteoi gdkgjvn?”

    Underwater! drowning! I’m fucking drowning! I frantically started swimming for the surface.

    My flailing got me about three feet in the air before I remembered where I was. I floated back to my bed, weighted by shame and blankets.

    “Flsfjhas lsfheriheu fjshflahdoe Sam Breen. Fheoi ejkthjad goirteoi gdkgjvn?”

    Quick, what was it? How do I say yes ? What’s Octavian for —

    “En,” I said, screwing up the intonation completely.

    The vidphone lit up the room, and an Octavian’s face started to fade in.

    “Visuals off, visuals off!” I yelled, pulling my sheet up to my chin. Was it even Mr. Zik?

    “Uhh... falfje elrelj,” said the person on the screen. The vidphone image faded out.

    “I am sorry,” Mr. Zik said. “Did you wake up?”

    “Yeah, it’s OK. What time is it, anyway?”

    “It’s nine o’clock, Plangyo time.”

    I set my watch, something I’d avoided doing since I left the orientation. I was going through so many systems, some that didn’t even keep time, that there had been no point in doing it before now. I noticed the needle on my aggrometer had registered my waking terror.

    “Your luggage has come. It is outside.”

    I started pulling on clothes. “Right now?”

    “Yes. Can I come to your aplartment?”

    “Uh... I guess so.”

    Pause. “Is it OK?” he asked.

    “It’s fine, come over,” I said, smoothing out my blanket.

    The speaker clicked off without a good-bye.

    I went to my front door. The windows were letting in a blue-green light, and my suspicions were confirmed about just how dirty the living room