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hospital sufficient to serve a good-sized conurbation. It was all for him. Everything and everyone on the ship existed to keep Gibeon Bastrop functioning and his every need looked after.
    What must it be like, the Shipmaster mused, to live out your last days knowing that being the richest human alive no longer meant anything?
    “The Chauna is not a fancy!” Gibeon Bastrop pounded the arm of his motile with suddenly surprising strength. “The Chauna is real!”
    “Far more so the people on board this ship, sir. They have lives, too. And families, and careers, and needs and desires. All of which they have left behind so that you could follow this whim of yours.”
    “They are being well-paid to do so.”
    “Extremely well-paid.” Tyrone was willing, as always, to concede the obvious. “But I’m afraid that’s no longer enough, sir.” Taking a step forward, he gestured at the port and the magnificence of the drive-distorted starfield. “They’ve been away from home for too long. We’re not talking a month or two. Almost two years in Void is enough to drive anyone crazy.”
    The hoverchair hummed softly as Bastrop pivoted to face the same sweeping galactic panorama. “I haven’t changed—but then, you all think I was insane when I began this expedition. Why should you think differently of me now?”
    The Shipmaster’s tone was kindly. Like nearly every other member of the crew, he genuinely liked the Old Man. It was Bastrop’s obsession that was hated, not the individual behind it. Nor was great wealth, as is so often the case, an issue. Gibeon Bastrop was admired for starting from nothing and making his mammoth fortune through the astute application of genius and plain hard work.
    “We don’t think you’re crazy, Mr. Bastrop. Just in thrall to a falsehood.”
    Gibeon Bastrop looked up at the younger man. “Is that a crime?”
    “No sir,” Tyrone replied patiently. “But you must realize that your obsession is not shared by your crew. Initial enthusiasm gave way to tolerance, then to grudging compliance, and most recently to exasperation. I have worked hard to keep it from progressing to the next step.” He leaned toward the floating chair that kept Gibeon Bastrop not only mobile, but alive. “Word that we have finally struck for home would immediately alleviate any potential problem and eliminate tension among discontented personnel.”
    Bastrop nodded thoughtfully. Even his enfeebled voice, when he replied, was one that could still command fleets and minions. “We’ve come to find the Chauna. We will search until we do so.”
    Tyrone’s lips tightened. His response was devoid of insolence, but firm. “At the risk of voicing a cliché, sir, money can’t buy everything. It can’t buy you people.”
    “No, but it can damn well rent them for me,” Bastrop declared with knowing confidence.
    “It can’t buy you a myth.”
    “That remains to be seen. You are dismissed, Mr. Tyrone.”
    The Shipmaster nodded imperceptibly and bowed out. Wakoma and Surat were waiting for him on the bridge.
    “What did he say?” Surat was small and dynamic, like a puppy perpetually kept on a too-short leash. She was also the finest navigator Tyrone had ever worked with. “Did you make your point?” Her expression was no less eager than Wakoma’s.
    “I made it.” The Shipmaster brushed past them. “And he ignored it. Stand by for downslip.” He settled into place in front of his bank of readouts.
    Crestfallen but hardly surprised, the two seconds in command parted, each to their own station. Tyrone’s words meant that more weeks, maybe months, of pointless wandering lay before them. Like the rest of the crew, they were beyond homesick. If this kept up, the
home
portion of their condition would begin to slough away for real.
    “Maybe he’ll die.” Wakoma struggled to concentrate on his work. Like everyone else on board the
Seraphim,
he was an exceedingly competent professional.
    “Not likely.” The tech