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(The moons are lowering out of sight. Navichet, her helmet off, is sewing up Spondule’s wounds. Spondule lies on his back, half-eaten white-root in one hand)

NAVICHET: Not gonna be too bad, really. It may scar, however.

SPONDULE: Hurts.

NAVICHET: Those gleaned shells, I guess. Everything out there just working worse and worse.