Levaszk my friend has brought us to a green world. The green of Exile, he says. Our torn capes and chipped paint were prophecy. We are meant to be here.

Levaszk is gifted with tongues. He can convince anybody of anything, even the Humans. He sits on a carpet woven by small Human hands and sings to their Diin about local gravity and chemical reactions. Servitors listen and sing descant, calculating Ether-gain from huge pillows of slime mold.

Our new home is warmer and wetter than Luna. The throat doesn't click so dryly against inhaled Ether. It's good, it's good—except for the fear of mold growing in rebreather linings. Except for when the wet against my shell makes my lower arms ache with Venus's memory.

Rhys, the Human Splicer-apprentice, sings another question to me. I settle my shoulders under my cloak and gesture: apologies, again?

"You and your people maintain ancient systems," he repeats. "How do you—" here he sings a note I do not understand. He sees my confusion. "New and old. Scrap, garbage, rusting trash. New metal. Together?"

"We are used to building with scrap," I sing back, and we enter a discussion of material recycling. They are used to scrap-patchwork here too, on Kepler.

Light fades from the sky, and his Splicer-master approaches. "Karrh-nahan," I say politely. She smiles with her mobile, fleshy cheeks. "Athareks," she says to me, her best attempt yet. Rhys is lucky; his name is no trouble for either of us to say.

The Humans are not worried about blows from a stranger's hand. They come up to me, my four arms filled with stolen knives, and all they ask is the composition and tensile strength of the metal. The engine that drives them is not fear or resource-hunger, but curiosity. We are trying to learn from them, we poor Exiles.

But they have their own ways, and it is time for their evening ritual. Carnahan urges Rhys up from his seat.

We nod to each other, the young Splicer-apprentice and the aging Exile.

There will be time to solve the problems of materials science later.