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down at Queequeg’s sleeper. It’s empty.

In Old Ben’s place, Ishmael listened to the wind whistle. He should have started home already. It was not uncommon for people to get lost in storms, often suffering lung damage from breathing in too much soot and grit. Sometimes they even died. But despite the looming danger, he stayed. What Old Ben had just said about them meeting on another planet was impossible — nonsense, really — but Ishmael had never known him to lie. “They haven’t told me where I’m going yet. And wherever it is, we can’t have met there before. I’ve never been off Earth.”
    In the shadows, the old man drummed his fingers, as though struggling to find a way to explain. “For now, just humor an old man and
pretend
you and I met on Cretacea thirty-five years ago. Would you do that for me?”
    Old Ben might have used the word
pretend,
but Ishmael knew this wasn’t a game. If the old man was telling him this, it was because he believed it to be true. But Ishmael hadn’t even been
alive
thirty-five years ago. . . .
    “Back then, I was just a kid myself,” Old Ben went on. “Maybe twelve years old at the most. All I knew were Grace and the ocean.”
    “Grace?”
    The old man’s voice turned wistful. “The captain of our pinkboat. I was her crew.”
    Pinkboat?
Apprehension began to slither through Ishmael. This was starting to sound more and more like a fantasy, the imaginings of an old, lonely man. Or could it be the benzo talking? “We met when you were twelve?” Ishmael repeated, trying to show the old man how ludicrous the whole thing sounded.
    But Old Ben took it differently. “You’re thinking they don’t allow kids as young as twelve on missions?” He leaned across the table, his craggy face faintly visible in the dark. “I wasn’t on a mission, son. Cretacea’s where I grew up.”
    Ishmael sat back, unsure what to do. The wind rattled the house’s roof. By now, Joachim probably assumed that he’d stay the night at Old Ben’s. But Ishmael was determined to get home and spend his last night on Earth with his foster brother.
    A loud
plink!
made them both start. A gust of wind must’ve picked up a small pebble and hurled it against a window. Old Ben poured himself another glass of benzo, liquid overflowing the rim. “Mark my words, son: The next time you see me, it’ll be on a scurry trawler in the middle of an ocean the size of which you can’t imagine.”
    He raised the glass and drained it. But instead of relaxing, he suddenly hunched forward, his demeanor intense. “Here’s what you need to remember: Do
not
rendezvous with the
Pequod.
When Grace tells you that’s what she’s going to do, you
have
to stop her. Understand? Lives are at stake, son. Don’t let her do it. If she insists, you go down below and disable the RTG. Do whatever you have to. Just don’t let her near that ship.”
    Outside, the wind no longer whistled; now it screamed.
Scurry trawler? RTG? The
Pequod
again?
Ishmael didn’t know what to make of any of this.
    “Promise me,” Old Ben said.
    The roof rattled so loudly that Ishmael wondered if it would blow right off. It was definitely time to go. He started to rise.
    “Son?” said the old man.
    “How can I promise? Nothing you’ve said makes sense.”
    Old Ben mulled it over. “All right, if it’s all nonsense, then what harm is there in promising?” He offered his hand. “I’ve been waiting most of my life for this moment. Shake on it, son.”
    Ishmael hesitated, then reluctantly grasped the old man’s quivering hand and shook. But instead of letting go, Old Ben tightened his grip and pulled Ishmael close. “There’s one more thing. As soon as you’ve got a decent chunk of money, you transfer it to me.”
    Ishmael scrunched his face. The old man’s benzo breath was foul.
    Old Ben squeezed his hand, refusing to let go. “Promise?”
    “Why do you need money?”
    “To save your foster parents. They’ve aged out of the mission