It’s such a good story, that when Myrha goes in to try to find something to eat, Bartin regales her with the tale as well. He leads her to the vends, chattering like she’s an old best friend and not his irate customer.

“And here are the food facilities,” he welcomes her with a flourish.

It’s a small room down the main hall from the lobby; there are a few chairs and tables and two vends. She walks up to one of the machines, grimaces at the lack of variety, and concocts a meal on the screen. Bartin leads her to a seat with exaggerated grace, and she bites back the urge to remind him that they are in a small, smelly vend-machine-room and not in a classy restaurant. He’s probably doing it just to annoy her.

He sits down with her as she waits for her meal and folds his hands before him, smiling at her as if he’s willing to put all unpleasantness aside.

Myha ticks an eyebrow at him in suspicion.

“So, Myrha,” he says, “when did your love of poetry begin?”

Bartin may be a fan of Turobeck, but she’s not willing to discuss the depths of her passion for poetry with this man.

“Why do you ask?” she says, not quite nicely.

He twiddles his thumbs, “Well, you’re here because of your poetry. Clearly, I’m a lover of poetry as well, since I hosted the contest. And I’m sure you recognize where the name of this place came from.”

“Is that your favorite poem of his?”

“‘Starry Resting Place’? Well, I suppose it is. This hotel was supposed to be my own resting place, in a way.”

The vend beeps and she collects her food: good old pasta with sourgrass topping (a type of grass from Peynar that’s become a popular seasoning on Earth), a drink of water and a pale squishy lump called a jerriberry, a sweet synthetic fruit. All of it surprisingly tastes rather good, like it hasn’t been sitting for months. He watches her eat and that kind of pisses her off, so she waves a hand in his direction while she chews mulishly on her pasta and the crunchy grass.

Bartin takes that as permission to continue talking. She suddenly wishes she had ordered alcohol instead of water.

“I’ve always wanted to leave Earth,” he says conversationally, “ever since I was a boy. When I finally was able to have my first off-planet trip, I suddenly found myself….”

“Scared?” Myrha suggests when he doesn’t finish.

“Yes,” he answers rather dryly, “I wasn’t exactly prepared for the reality. I was never a fan of poetry, but I searched for some measure of comfort and reassurance. I found Turobeck’s poems.”

The thought horrifies her that she may be able to relate to Bartin, that they might have something in common. Ugh.

“And the rest, as they say, is history,” he gestures around, “look at me now! I live permanently on another planet, one I basically have to myself, and I run my own business.”

Myrha has to admit, put it that way, and Bartin sounds like a big fat fucking success.

“Oh, I know you don’t think much of my facilities,” he gives her a grin.

She nods fastidiously.

“But just think about where we are! A relatively unexplored alien planet far from Earth! It’s full of discoveries just waiting to be made. Every time I venture out into the woods, or on the sea, I feel like an explorer. Rather like Turobeck.”

She immediately wants to roll her eyes, because this guy is comparing himself to the grand Turobeck. But…in some ways the comparison is apt. She can scarcely believe it, but Myrha’s not one to ignore the truth. Even if it’s as difficult to swallow as sourgrass.

“So, what’s with the contest?” she asks.

“I wanted to give someone else the chance to get off-planet.”

He answers so serenely that Myrha almost chokes on the altruism.

“But why my poem? Mine wasn’t about adventure or exploration.”

“Your poem could’ve been about many things,” he smiles at her indulgently.

And the fact that Bartin may be more than a fan, but also an avid poetry reader, interpreter and critic just freaks her out.

“You lied about Lieval,” she accuses him, mostly just to change the subject.

“I did,” he says simply.

She just grunts and continues to eat because she wants to grill him and yell at him and sue him, but at the same time…he got her off-planet. For free. And if that contest had told the truth about Lieval (a world of sand, sun, and complete isolation) she never would have entered. Maybe Bartin figured the same.

“It wasn’t by happy accident that I set up a hotel here,” he says.

She’s too busy swallowing so she just nods for him to continue.

“Eighty years ago, Turobeck disappeared during one of his explorations. Based on his last transmissions, the star-space he disappeared in includes Lieval.”

He sighs romantically, “When this planet reopened to the public, I just had to move here! Imagine living in the star-space Turobeck was exploring! His last new frontier.”

“Lynne says it’s possible he may have crashed here.”

“Lynne…?”

“Yeah. She also said that he may have just…blown up mid-flight. Or maybe he even landed on one of the other five planets in this system. Let’s be honest, Lieval isn’t the most exciting of the bunch.”

“You aren’t one to get your hopes up.”

“Not really, no.”

“Well there’s always hope, just not enough…evidence,” his thumb caresses the cord around his neck.

“Sure. Great. I still think he blew up or got sucked into this world’s star or something.”

Bartin sighs like she’s a lost cause, “Well you should try exploring the jungle sometime. Get out of the hotel. Do some adventuring.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll leave that to the tree-hugging hermits.”

“Most of our visitors do seem to appreciate our outdoor facilities,” he says with pride.

“Yeah, I saw one of your guests disappear into the jungle earlier today.”

“Spinner?”

“Who?”

“Tristan Spinner. One of my regulars. Short man. Very quiet. Kind of squeaky?”

“Likes to look at porn on his utiphone?”

He blinks at her slowly, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, he was the one.”

Bartin nods, “He’s a rather avid explorer. A lover of quiet and solitude. He visits every year, but I rarely actually see him.”

“What, does he like camp out there or something?”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one. We have quite a few campgrounds for our guests to enjoy.”

She’s not really surprised. Myrha is sure that some of the tents and campsites must be nicer than the rooms here.

At that moment the captain comes in, grasping the wall and looking a bit peaky.

“I couldn’t establish contact with any of the nearest ports or the Orion Starline hub. And the port we were supposed to dock at, the one on Earth, hasn’t sent a message. Or at least, we haven’t been able to receive it.”

“We’re trapped here?” Myrha asks, standing up abruptly.

The captain’s grim expression confirms her fears. With the shuttle down and the port not responding it feels suspiciously like they’re doomed.

“I’m sure they’ll send an investigation team, since by now they must realize we are missing,” the captain says through gritted teeth.

“That could take a few days,” Bartin points out.

The captain glares at him, like it’s his fault, “I’m going to lie down now. Wake me if we receive any communication.”

After he stomps away Bartin raises his eyebrows, “Well, isn’t he a ray of sunshine.”

Myrha doesn’t feel like a ray of sunshine herself, and simply abandons the rest of her meal.