I looked at our starship: at its stainless-steel hull which shown cool and blue in the building's dim shadow. "No. No, I don't think so," I said. "We've … transcended all that, to some extent. I mean, look at it, Mark. Look at what we've accomplished."

He followed my gaze, holding his glass loosely, tenuously, his eyes blurry and red. "It—it looks like a giant hard-on," he said, and tittered. He began looking for the bottle. "Or maybe a middle finger. Like a big 'Fuck You' to God."

I watched as he stumbled through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen. "You should lay off that," I said. "We've got a big day tomorrow."

But by then he was retching into the sink and I was alone, just looking at my empty glass, wondering, a little amused: Did he see himself as Abel? Or did he see himself as Cain?

I thought about Rachael, sleeping in her thin nightshirt, having more than any woman could need; and about myself, and how I saw myself. And then I dozed, dreaming of home—which was curious, since, like Maldano, I had never really had one (hence one of the reasons we were chosen for Mars). A dream which soon gave way to the faint smell of blood and an impulse I could not define; and of gliding through dark water—stealthily, surefootedly—like a predator, or a wraith.