At that moment, I suddenly remember being nine years old in my grandmother’s country house back on Midgard. It was a sunny spring morning, and I’d caught a spider in my bedroom. I scooped him up in my cupped hands and trapped him, ran down the stairs and out the front door with his sharp little feet scrambling around and around my palms. I crouched down in the front garden, put my hands near the ground, and opened my fingers. As he scuttled away, I felt like a benevolent god. Through the hole in the wall, I can see the snow-dusted bulge of our main dome, no more than a couple of kilometers
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