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moved to the console, dialed herself a helping of some squishy semi-solid; Moira wondered if it was mashed potatoes or soft ice cream.
    Teague said, “The cabins are in a circle in the next module; they're numbered one to six. Why not just take them in alphabetical order — Ching, Fontana, Moira, Peake, Ravi, and me in that order?”
    Fontana giggled, biting into her ham sandwich — she supposed it was synthetic protein, but it tasted like a ham sandwich, so she decided to think of it as one. "That still separates women from men, three on a side!
    Purely by the accidents of the alphabet!"
    “I don't expect we'll be spending all that much time in the sleeping quarters,” Moira said, “they make the cubicles at the Academy seem like auditoriums. One sleeping net and one shower with toilet per private cabin, and that's it.”
    “Wearing disposable clothing, that's about all we need,” Ching said. “I notice they've each got separate DeMag units, though —”
    “That's so you can read, study, or write without the books and papers floating away,” Peake said, “and sleep at full gravity. And if you want to practice in private, your instrument will stay put... I assume you all know the mechanics of a violin depend on gravity, so you can get friction against the strings. The gym is set for one-half to two gravities, for physical training. I assume I don't have to warn you to work out at full gravity at least half the time, so your muscles won't atrophy.”
    “And speaking of music,” Moira said, “I'd like to know if we have a complete string quartet. I play cello, and I know you play viola, Ching, because I've played with you. Ravi, you play the violin, don't you?”
    “Only the way we all do. I haven't touched one since I was fourteen; I play the drums. Jazz drums, steel drums, and the Indian table. And somehow I think all I have here on the Ship is a small set of tabla — weight problem.”
    “Teague, you play —”
    “Flute, wooden recorder, and several woodwinds. I could probably manage second violin sometimes. Peake's the best violinist we have on board.”
    Moira said, “I guess that makes you our concertmas-ter, then, Peake —”
    He looked away and a spasm of pain crossed his face.
    That last day in the music room, his violin tucked under his chin, Jimson's piano delicately interlocking with his mind. ... He said thickly, “Look, let's leave it, I'm not going to feel much like playing for a while. Do you mind?”
    “Yes, I do,” Moira said, setting her chin. “You know as well as I do why we were taught the violin, and required to specialize in music — so we'd all have some recreation in common. I think having a regular music session once a day is even more important than having Teague's gripe session, or meals together.”
    Peake stared at the floor. He said, “Look—” again, and couldn't go on. Why was he here with all these people he didn't really know and didn't want to know, and the only person he had ever cared about, or ever would care about, the other half of himself, at the other end of a slowly lengthening separation which would space out intolerably, in distance and time, until he and Jimson were at opposite ends of a vast and lengthening nowhere. . . .
    Jimson's face, white and strained and tearful. You don't care enough to stay, he had flung at Peake, I knew we wouldn't both make Ship, but I thought you'd care enough to stay. . . .
    But how could he have done that, after twelve years of the finest education in the world, education that he, a black kaffir from one of the kaffirland reserves in South Africa, could never have had on his own continent. . . . UNEPS had given him this, and now it was his turn to make some return to the only world he knew. Fontana had voiced it; he wanted it out of his power to have second thoughts. Only jimson had not been able to see it that way . . . there was no music he could ever play again that would not have Jimson's face tied into every note,