The clock on the command inner wall showed 02:00 ship standard time.
The Aethelgard had entered its scheduled night-watch cycle. The bright buzzing white lamps along the halls had dimmed to a soft, calm amber glow, simulating the peaceful twilight of a mountain camp. The gentle, rhythmic hum of the upgraded life-support pumps sounded like the breathing of a sleeping giant beast, steady, warm, and comforting.
Arthur Vance walked silently along the heavy glass narrow high walkway of the dorsal watching deck, his heavy leather boots making no sound against the rubberized floor runners.
He wore his old woolen field jacket, the collar turned up against the mild breeze from the breath flow vents. In his left hand, he carried a battered brass telescope. In his right, a mug of warm chamomile tea. He stopped at the center of the panoramic dome. He looked out into the silent majesty of the cosmos.
To his right, the sun filled half the sky—a huge, gently churning sphere of golden fire, resting in quiet, healthy grandeur. The violent flare storms had subsided into calm heat-rising loops that arched gracefully over the solar limb like bridges of glowing amber.
To his left, across one hundred and fifty million miles of ink-black interplanetary empty pocket, floated Earth.
