Sprat is a dirty white lozenge in the lamps at last, skids on a pillow-lava bench, one manipulator folded like a tired bird. Not crushed. Not missing. Parked with a story.

The acoustic phone hisses, then Paz, thin and joking on purpose: “Took you long enough. I have a chimney that smells like rotten eggs and a story about a current. I would like my own air back.”

Reed matches trim until Minnow hangs as still as a held cup. “That’s a dock. We talk them through their lock. We do not invent a new door in Nereid.”

Vargas: “Side hatches on the habitat see ninety extra atmospheres. They are not handles. The moon-pool lock is the mouth we built.”

You want a faster mouth. Faster is a feeling. Pressure is a mountain.

Paz again: “If you bump me, I go for a roll into the gully. Please be boring.”

Boring is a love word.