"Yes. There's some ... there's...."
"You are—or you were—courier pilot for the Cassa Expedition," Troy said. He thumped his heel on the floor. "That's Cassa One, underneath us. We've been away from Earth for three years and eight months." He paused. "Does that help?"
Newland reflected, frowned. "Not much. I ... it seems to be true when you say it." He hesitated. "We're prisoners, aren't we?"
"Uh-huh," he answered, flatly.
"I had that feeling. And you're hiding me here?"
"That's right," Troy agreed.
"Why?"
"Because nobody else knows you're still alive. It's better if they don't, right now."
Newland shook his head, indicated a sign fastened to the ceiling above the bunk in such a way that a man lying in the bunk on his back would catch sight of it as soon as he opened his eyes. "That," he said, "made sense as soon as I saw it just now! I remembered having read it before and what it meant. But otherwise everything's still badly blurred."