"Thought it might be," Plourr says, and she doesn't say what she's thinking; that she'd go mad trapped here, that she'd tear the walls down or shatter bones trying. "Our galaxy's a big place. Wide open and ready for exploration."

As long as--

A shadow passes across her face, but it clears swiftly, and she says, simple and matter-of-fact, "Finn, the fact that you're dead -- it won't be a problem, will it?"

She could sugarcoat it and she could beat around the bush, or she could ask straight out. Plourr Estillo has never been an indirect woman.