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parameters, but there are still ways to get them off this planet. Only it’s going to take a lot of cash.” The old man let go of Ishmael’s hand and slumped back in his chair, breathing heavily. “I know . . . I’m putting a huge burden on your young shoulders . . . but there’s no other way. You just . . . you’ve got to take a leap of faith, son. I’ll need at least six thousand. Maybe seven or eight. Ten thousand would definitely do it.”
    That cinched it: Old Ben had lost his mind. Ψ10,000 was an absolute fortune, more than most people earned in an entire lifetime.
    “I know it sounds like a lot,” the old man said, “but it’s not impossible where you’re going. You’ve heard the stories. You can make that and more if you’re smart. Just remember, son: As soon as you’ve got that money, transfer it to me. And don’t let Grace rendezvous with the
Pequod.
”
    Outside, the wind continued to howl and sand and dirt pelted the windowpanes. “You better get going,” Old Ben said, reaching again for the benzo jar. “And son?”
    Ishmael hesitated. “Yes?”
    “May good luck and fortune go with you.”

A loud, insistent bleating comes through speakers in the ceiling of the men’s berth — speakers that Ishmael hadn’t even realized were there. With no windows in the sleeping quarters, it’s impossible to know whether it’s dark out or light, but to Ishmael it feels much too early to rise. He and the other nippers nestle groggily in their sleepers while the older sailors wash and dress.
    The door opens and in hurries a short, portly, balding man wearing a neatly pressed black uniform much like Starbuck’s, as well as wire-rimmed glasses. He’s carrying a tablet and wearing a headset, and his skin is pallid. The nippers watch him from under their blankets while the other sailors brush past without a word. “Well, what are you waiting for?” the man asks in a high, squeaky voice. “Come on, it’s time to get up. This is your first full day. Lots to do. Come on. Up, up, up!”
    Billy, Queequeg, and Ishmael drag themselves out of their sleepers. Queequeg looks especially bleary, his eyes puffy from spending half the night in the washroom giving back his dinner. Only Pip rolls over and covers his head with a pillow.
    The portly man passes his tablet over Pip’s bare wrist. “Oh, uh, it’s you, Mr. Lopez-Makarova.” The man’s tone becomes deferential. “You really should get up. You don’t want to be left behind, do you?”
    “Bugger off,” Pip murmurs from under the bedding.
    Ishmael and Queequeg wait to see how the man will react, but he simply forges ahead politely: “Now, now, Mr. Lopez-Makarova, is this really the way to begin your sojourn with us here on the
Pequod
? As I’m sure you’ve been informed, no one gets to sleep in, except for an extra hour on Sundays, and today is not Sunday.”
    A wiry man with tattoos of coiled vipers on both cheeks enters the room. He, too, wears a black uniform, but it’s wrinkled, and several days’ worth of stubble darkens his jaw. When he hears the portly man meekly admonishing Pip, he stomps over to the bunk. “Aw, fer Earth’s sake, Stubb, step aside.” He reaches into Pip’s sleeper and grabs the boy by the hair. “Get up, ya lazy slug!”
    Pip lets out a cry, and the man named Stubb gasps. “Stop, Mr. Flask! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
    Ignoring him, Flask yanks Pip’s pale, round face close to his own. “Listen, mate, when ya get an order, ya snap to it. Otherwise you’ll spend yer time here cleaning toilets with yer tongue.”
    Stubb scoots close and whispers something in Flask’s ear that makes him instantly let go of Pip’s hair. “Oh, er, is that so? Still, shouldn’t mean a basher’s snout who he is,” he splutters and backs out of the quarters.
    “I’m terribly sorry about that, Mr. Lopez-Makarova,” Stubb apologizes while Pip sits up and rubs his eyes. “But it is breakfast time, and Ms. Charity asked