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eyes went to the imaging window at the front of the semi-darkened triangular compartment. The comtech hunched over his console, checking out instruments that had sat unused for sixteen days.
    “Transition.”
    In that moment, a crazy-quilt of radiation—light, radio, microwave, X-ray—began to impinge on the ship’s many eyes as Dove regained her senses. Neale looked up expectantly at the window, and when the dazzle cleared, found herself looking at a splendid circular starfield, the distortion a product of their still-tremendous velocity. As Dove continued to decelerate, the view would slowly come to resemble the view from the South Dakota pasture which had first captured her curiosity.
    I started out trying to find Orion in a winter sky for a teacher whose name I can’t remember. Look at me now , she thought with a rush of emotion.
    “Which one’s the Sun, damnit?” demanded a bearded sysawk standing with the onlookers. Several eagerly, if impatiently, answered him. “There! Right there! Dead on center!”
    “That’s the wrong color.”
    “We’re still blue-shifted,” Harrod reminded the awk gently.
    The navtech poked a spotting circle onto the screen, enclosing the small bluish star and settling the disagreement. “What year is it?” asked someone. “I make it A.R. 195,” said the navtech. “We’ll get confirmation once we start picking up our mail.”
    “A.R ?” asked the medtech, his face showing consternation.
    “After Reunion,” the comawk standing beside him answered. “They changed the calendar on us while we were gone.”
    “That’s 2205 for those of you still thinking in Gregorian calendar dates, like Bristol there,” the navtech added.
    That hushed the observers and the bridge crew alike. “A hundred and freezin’ fifty-seven years,” one said finally. “They better cook up some fine kind of reception for us.”
    “Speaking of which, we’ve got just eleven days to get this ship ready to hand over to the yard, and there’s a lot to be done,” Harrod said. “I’m sure no one wants to be hung up by scutwork when they could be off on leave, so let’s get to it.”
    “Amen to that,” said the bearded sysawk. “The Service’s already taken a bigger piece of my life than I’d planned on offering.”
    “Tell ’em, Waite,” cheered one onlooker.
    Harrod raised a questioning eyebrow. “Just don’t forget, there’s a whole new generation of ships being built, and they’ll be wanting to put some experience on all of them. Be thinking about it. Even you, Waite.”
    Waite laughed derisively. “I’ve got other plans.”
    Neale knocked lightly at Harrod’s cabin door. “Glen?”
    “Come on in.”
    She slid the door aside and stepped over the threshold. “Just wanted to tell you she’s ready for the hand-over—finally.”
    “That’s good to hear.”
    “It’s been hard to get much work out of them these last three days, with the Earth sitting there in all the screens and getting bigger by the minute.”
    “Understandable, though, eh? It’s been a long sixteen years—or hundred and fifty-seven, depending on how you like to count.”
    “I’ll count sixteen, if you don’t mind. Have you gotten word on how they’re handling the crew?” Harrod nodded. “Just came in about an hour ago. We’re only the second ship ever to come back—”
    “Who beat us in?”
    “ Munin —twelve years ago. Anyway, there’ll be a fair amount of fuss. They’ve been tracking our relatives while we’re gone, and there’ll be somebody to greet each one of us. Except for Waite.” Harrod looked up. “Funny thing, eh?”
    “His won’t come?” she asked indignantly.
    “He hasn’t any. I’d have thought that if anybody had left a few genes behind it’d have been that rabbit. But he’s got no living relatives, not even a grandniece or nephew. So he’s going to be ‘adopted’—isn’t that considerate of the Flight Office?” His tone carried a burden of sarcasm.
    “What