The hours dragged into days. When the ship's timepieces started disagreeing, time ceased to have meaning.
Basil Donovan sat in his cabin. There was a bottle in his hand, but he tried to go slow. He was waiting.
When the knock came, he leaped from his seat and every nerve tightened up and screamed. He swore at himself. They wouldn't knock when they came for him. "Go on, enter—" His voice wavered.
Helena Jansky stepped inside, closing the door after her. She had thinned, and there was darkness in her eyes, but she still bore herself erect. Donovan had to salute the stubborn courage that was in her. The unimaginative peasant blood—no, it was more than that, she was as intelligent as he, but there was a deep strength in that tall form, a quiet vitality which had perhaps been bred out of the Families of Ansa. "Sit down," he invited.
She sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair. "Thanks."
"Drink?"
"No. Not on duty."
"And the captain is always on duty. Well, let it go." Donovan lowered himself to the bunk beside her, resting his feet on Wocha's columnar leg. The Donarrian muttered and whimpered in his sleep. "What can I do for you?"
Her gaze was steady and grave. "You can tell me the truth."
"About the Nebula? Why should I? Give me one good reason why an Ansan should care what happens to a Solarian ship."