Bigman never tired of the stars.
They were never as clear as this, looking up from the sands of Mars, or through the dirty cover of a dome. The ship's viewscreens weren't windows, but they felt like glass; a thin layer between him and the void.
There are humans out there, he thought. Spreading. Like yeast in brewing beer. He thought of the first time he took a shower on Earth; how the water never seemed to end. How he ran from the bathroom, fearing it would flood. That.
He'd talk to Lucky about it, maybe. An endless, brewing pot.
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