"Take yer time," the bosun said.
"Aim to."
The music turned quiet and sounded of the rippling brooks on far Corazon; it reflected the vast meadows of Nid and the giant, silver-capped mountains of Muri. A cello picked up the theme and ran it, in rich notes, over the whole surface of the dead world, Astolath. A whining oboe piped of the sweet winds from Zoltah; and the brass beat out the finny rhythm of the water world of Du.
"'Scuse me," the first mate said. He laid down the penknife and walked to the radio. With a flick of his wrist, he cut it off.
"What uz th' matter with hit?" the bosun asked.
"Didn't ja notice?" said the first mate. "Th' third fiddle was sour."
"Guess I wasn't listenin' close enough," said the bosun.
The first mate returned to his work. "May as well get on with it," he said.
He raised the penknife again.