It is a truth universally acknowledged among those who travel between the stars, that a vessel in possession of insufficient fuel must be in want of a harbour.

Captain Elian Wetherby, of the courier-ship Perseverance, would have disputed the universality of the sentiment, but not its present application. His engines had been coughing with a vulgar irregularity for the better part of six hours, and the orbital station of Hestia was now before him, not as a point of convenience, but as the sole remaining object between himself and a very cold, very permanent embarrassment.

“Mr. Vale,” said he, with all the composure that a gentleman may command when three alarms are sounding at once, “pray inform Hestia that we are prepared to make our approach.”

Mr. Vale, whose youth had not yet taught him that panic is rarely improved by speed, pressed the brass-ringed communicator with unnecessary violence.

“Hestia Control, this is the Perseverance, requesting leave to dock at your outer cradle.”

A pause followed. It was the sort of pause which, in drawing rooms, precedes either an engagement or a quarrel; in space, it was generally the latter.

At length a woman’s voice replied, calm, cool, and entirely untroubled by their impending destruction. “Perseverance, your vector is inelegant.”

Captain Wetherby shut his eyes for one modest instant.

“Madam,” he answered, “I regret that our circumstances have not allowed for ornament.”

“You are descending too steeply by four degrees, rotating by a fraction more than station tolerance, and venting from your port side.”

Mr. Vale looked over his shoulder with the expression of a man who had just heard his own faults described at dinner.

“Tell her,” said the captain, “that we are aware of the venting.”

“We are aware of the venting,” repeated Mr. Vale.

There was another pause.

“Hestia Control inquires,” said the woman, “whether you are aware of the fire.”

At this, even Captain Wetherby permitted himself to turn.

From the aft corridor came a faint orange glow, quite improperly cheerful.

“Mr. Vale,” said he, “you may inform the station that we have recently become aware of the fire.”

The lieutenant did so, with a tremor that was audible enough to disgrace his family.

Hestia’s voice returned. “Maintain present speed. Correct your pitch by two degrees. Reduce your spin. And Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Do not attempt manual docking.”

Captain Wetherby stiffened. There are insults which pass unnoticed in war, and others which cannot be borne in peacetime. To suggest that he, who had brought dispatches through the moons of Cressida under meteor fire, could not guide his own ship into a cradle, was nearly intolerable.

“Madam,” he said, “I have docked vessels in worse condition.”

“I am sure you have, Captain. But have the stations survived?”

Mr. Vale made a noise that he attempted to disguise as a cough.

Captain Wetherby’s dignity might have replied at length, had not the ship lurched with such sincerity that everyone on the bridge was forced to seize the nearest surface. A tin cup drifted upward with the solemnity of a philosophical question. The stars rolled in the forward glass.

The station now filled their view: vast, white, and ringed with lights like a chandelier hung over eternity. Its docking arms extended with mechanical grace, each one prepared to receive them or, if circumstances worsened, to swat them away like an ill-bred insect.

“Control,” said the captain, after deciding that pride was an excellent possession but a poor heat shield, “you may take guidance.”

“Already done,” replied the woman.

Mr. Vale blinked. “Already—?”

The Perseverance shuddered. Somewhere deep within her exhausted frame, old engines surrendered their authority to the station’s invisible hands. The ship slowed. Its rotation eased. The burning corridor behind them was sealed by automatic doors with a politeness that almost made the matter seem settled.

For three minutes, no one spoke. Even the alarms, having made their opinions known, reduced themselves to a more tolerable complaint.

Then came the sound: a deep metallic clasp, followed by the gentle thunder of docking clamps securing their hull.

A green light appeared.

Mr. Vale exhaled so passionately that it might have been mistaken for prayer.

“Hestia Control,” said Captain Wetherby, straightening his coat though no one beyond the bridge could see it, “the Perseverance is obliged to you.”

The woman’s voice returned, and for the first time there was something like amusement within it.

“Your obligation is recorded, Captain. Kindly refrain from exploding before customs inspection.”

The captain considered several replies, all of them elegant, several of them severe. At last he chose the only one suited to both his rank and his survival.

“We shall endeavour, Madam, to disappoint you no further.”

Behind him, the fire suppression system sighed through the corridors like a chaperone finally restoring order to a scandalous assembly.