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Simmons fingered a thin-bladed tool knife. “I wonder how he got up there in that rocket and in this transparent shroud? I’m sure he’s alive, but this is the most unorthodox Susp-An I’ve ever seen. Almost makes you believe in destiny, the way we lost our coordinate settings and had to back-track—and then found him out there. (“I’ll bet he jimmied the calculator,” York grouched.) You know, York, it’s almost as if the world down there marooned him right back at us.”

The first mate inserted the knife blade. The membrane withered and Barnhart lived.

“Now the arrest,” York murmured.

“What are you muttering about, York?” Captain Barnhart demanded. “What are we standing around here for? You can’t expect me to waste a whole afternoon on inspection. We have to get back on schedule.” He looked to his wrist. “Fifteen hundred hours.”

“He doesn’t remember,” York said behind him.

“He remembers the same old routine,” Simmons said. “Here we go again.”

Barnhart didn’t say anything. In the close confines of a spaceship there was bound to be a certain degree of informality.