found Francis in the circular blue-lit room. He was sitting on the steps holding his head in his hands; his pressure suit lay on the floor halfway across the room. He heard me come through the doorway and looked up. The blue light was dim, but I could see the haunted look in his eyes. Something was terribly wrong. I wasn’t sure he knew where he was. “Francis.” Then I realized he couldn’t hear me and switched on the external speakers. “Francis, it’s Bartolomeo.” He didn’t respond. His expression didn’t change.
