За разломом орла

           "EvenafterwhatI’vealreadyadjustedto?" 

           "You’veonlymadehalfthejourney,Thom." 

           "Butyoumadeit." 

           "Idid,Thom.Butformeitwasdifferent."Gretasmiled. "Forme,everythingwasdifferent." 

           Thenshemadethelightshowchangeagain. NoneoftheotherdinersappearedtonoticeaswebegantozoomintowardtheMilkyWay,crashingtowardthespiral,rammingthroughshoalsofoutlyingstarsandgasclouds. ThefamiliarlandscapeoftheLocalBubbleloomedlarge. 

           Theimagefroze,theBubbleoneamongstmanysuchstructures. 

           Againitfilledwiththeviolentredscribbleoftheaperturenetwork. Butnowthenetworkwasn’ttheonlyone.Itwasmerelyoneballofredyarnamongstmany,spacedoutacrosstensofthousandsoflight-years. Noneofthescribblestouchedeachother,yet—inthewaytheywereshaped,inthewaytheyalmostabuttedagainsteachother,itwaspossibletoimaginethattheyhadoncebeenconnected. Theywereliketheshapesofcontinentsonaworldwithtectonicdrift. 

           "Itusedtospanthegalaxy,"Gretasaid. "Thensomethinghappened. Somethingcatastrophic,whichIstilldon’tunderstand. Ashattering,intovastlysmallerdomains.Typicallyafewhundredlight-yearsacross." 

           "Whomadeit?" 

           "Idon’tknow.Nooneknows. Theyprobablyaren’taroundanymore. Maybethatwaswhyitshattered,outofneglect." 

           "Butwefoundit,"Isaid."Thepartofitnearusstillworked." 

           "Allthedisconnectedelementsstillfunction,"Gretasaid.