Time dragged slowly aboard the Jules Verne, and no sign of the portal was found. Karog had some specialised navigation and surveying equipment teleported up from Tharia and spent hours out on the walkway, making careful measurements of the positions of the two suns, eventually announcing that they were right where they were supposed to be. Right where the felisians had said the portal was. It was a triumphant vindication of shayen control of the Orb of Propulsion, but even so the trog couldn't pinpoint their position to within twenty million miles, and the Helms of Farsensing only had an ultimate maximum range of a hundred thousand miles.

     Captain Strong gave orders for the ship to begin a search pattern, therefore, spiraling out in three dimensions from their starting point, with all the bridge officers wearing their Helms continuously in search of anything that might be the portal or the ship stationed there. Other people were drafted in to cover for them while they were off duty, and Thomas found himself spending his nights in one of the bridge chairs, his eyes closed as the heavy bulk of the metal helmet sent images continually into his head. Images of nothing, of featureless emptiness.

     Only one moment of excitement broke the dull routine, when one of the alchemists spotted a lone object floating slowly through the void, but when the Jules Verne changed course to investigate they found it to be only a chunk of powdery ice a hundred yards across. The disappointment depressed their spirits even further, and people began to complain that they were wasting their time. That they were being kept away from their wives and families for no good reason.

     Men were still stationed on the railed walkway outside the ship, and Matthew took the time to talk to them now and again, making sure they were bearing up under the soulcrushing vista of deep space. He'd already noticed some disturbing symptoms that all was not well. The men who'd spent the longest outside were developing a look in their eyes. An unfocused expression as if they were staring at something that only they could see. They tended to speak in short, clipped sentences as if resenting having their attention disturbed from something far more important. Some of the less affected were calling it The Far Look, and Matthew could only hope it was something that would wear off once this was all over and they'd had a chance to recover.

     He was doing his rounds of the walkway when he was shocked and surprised to see Bobby Fell ahead of him. "I ordered you off this duty!" he exclaimed once he'd managed to drag the young man's attention back from whatever distant world it had fled to. "What are you doing back out here?"

     "Commander Callan ordered it," the young infantryman replied, his body trembling as he struggled to maintain control of himself. "He said we need every available man out here and that he had no need for... for idle slackers. I told him I'd be okay, that I could take it. Sir, I..."

     "Get back inside, Fell," ordered Matthew firmly. "You're on guard duty until I, I myself, say otherwise."

     "Sir, I'll be okay, I'm alright. I'm not a slacker, I can do whatever the others do..."

     "He had no right to call you that. I'll speak to him myself. Now get inside. Now!"

     Fell nodded gratefully and pulled himself towards the nearest airlock, Matthew following, his thoughts an inferno of fury. Once inside, he marched straight to the hanger deck, where Callan and two of his men were inspecting the scout ships, discussing the relative merits of various modifications that had been suggested, including a couple Matthew had made himself after their return from the Southern Continent. He politely asked the Commander whether he could talk to him in private, and Callan excused himself to the two navy men while he and Matthew entered the Trill-Dal, the shayen name for the second scoutship. Translated into the common tongue, it meant Silk Wing, the name of a large, lacy winged insect that lived in the jungles of the shayen homelands.

     The door into the small ship's orb room was sealed with shayen locking spells, so they went below, to the chart room, where Callan turned to face his subordinate. "What's this about, Flight Leader?"

     "You ordered Bobby Fell back outside the ship," said Matthew, fighting hard to contain the anger he was feeling.

     "Yes. We need every man out there..."

     "I ordered him inside for a reason. He can't handle the emptiness, the immensity. Putting him back out there..."

     "If he can't pull his weight he's got no business aboard this ship," Callan shot back, growing angry in turn. "There'll be no favouritism aboard this ship. He stands equal shifts with the others."

     "He'll crack up out there! There's plenty he can do inside..."

     "I've made my decision, mister. All men stand equal shifts. If he can't hack it, ship him back home and get someone else to replace him. Or would you like to be shipped home yourself?"

     He was grinning now, enjoying the power he held, and Matthew felt the anger building up inside him. The need to rage at his superior, tell him exactly what he thought of him. What they all thought of him. He held himself back with an effort. That was exactly what Callan wanted. A chance to discipline Matthew himself. What exactly the Commander had against him, he had no idea. Surely it had nothing to do with the fact that he came from the Overgreen Forest, on the borders of Ilandia. A former colony that had declared independence from Belthar. Matthew was Beltharan now. He had sworn oaths of allegiance to the King! No, he was just imagining it. Callan wasn't picking on him, or on Bobby Fell. This was just the way he was, to everyone.

     The thing was, Callan was probably right. Maybe shipping Fell back home would be the best thing for him. A Ship of Space was no place for someone who couldn't handle the sight of the stars, and if he had to go, it would have to be while they were still in teleportation contact with Tharia. All the wizards said that once they went through the portal, assuming they ever found it, they would be cut off from the world of their birth until they came back through it. If Fell was still on board when they went through, he would just have to endure shipboard life, for better or worse.

     Being sent back wouldn't be good for his record, though. The shame of his failure would stay with him for the rest of his career. It would badly effect his promotion chances. But if the alternative was a complete breakdown...

     "I'll talk to him," Matthew said, and he left the scout ship, hating the feel of Callan's gleeful eyes on the back of his head as he went.

     He took Fell back to the empty crew quarters and explained the situation to him. "I'll be okay," the infantryman insisted, however. "I'm sorry I've made trouble for you but it'll be different from now on, I promise. I can do anything the others can do."

     "No, I don't think you can," said Matthew, however, speaking softly to minimise the impact. "I've seen how it affects you out there. If the Commander had let you stay inside it'd be different, but..."

     The look of shame and guilt on Fell's face was suddenly more than Matthew could stand. Gods, he prayed silently. Don't ever let me look like that! Don't ever let me feel that kind of shame! The worse thing was, Bobby Fell was a damned good soldier. He'd served with distinction in the wars against the undead hordes of Darkthorne. He'd been awarded the Star of Honour for saving the lives of two men in his platoon, risking his own life in the process. He had a list of lesser medals and awards as long as your arm and had had a brilliant career to look forward to. Now, all that teetered on the edge of ruin. Sent home a failure. Unable to cut the mustard with the rest of the men. Soldiers had been known to end their lives over less.

     Matthew suddenly hated Callan. A bright, fiery hatred for not giving this man a fair break. He could have cut him a little slack. He could have given him another chance. Or maybe it was Callan who was right and he who was wrong, part of him suddenly thought. The good of the ship had to come first, and a man driven close to a complete breakdown, a man upon whom his comrades couldn't completely depend, put the whole ship in danger. He hated himself for thinking these things, but he was a Flight Leader now. He was responsible for the lives of eleven men, not just one.

     Suddenly the two wings he wore on his uniform felt very heavy and he felt a powerful jealousy for the enlisted men. They only had to obey orders. They didn't have to take responsibility. He remembered being that way himself once, years ago, just after his decision to make the army his career. At the time he couldn't wait to earn his promotion and get a little authority, but suddenly he found himself wishing with all his heart that he could be just another grunt again. Just one of the lads. Laughing and joking with his mates and not having to think of anything except the orders he'd been given.

     "I'm sorry, but I've made my decision," he said, therefore. "To tell the truth, I've been looking for someone to send back. We need another ranger, so we can have one for each of the two scoutships, in case we need to deploy both at once, but we don't have space for another crewman. Someone'll have to go back to make room for him. Your record will show that you served with distinction, but that the many skills you possess are simply not right for a mission of this type. Your record won't be affected. I think you'll agree that this is for the best."

     Bobby Fell nodded glumly. "I'm sorry, Sir. I tried my best, I really did."

     "I know you did. You'll be sorely missed. I look forward to serving with you again someday."

     They shook hands, and then Matthew left to inform Callan of his decision.