Archivist Sol did not touch the third cup until the archive had finished listening.
Paper arrived first. A return petition. A casualty appeal. A child's drawing of a ship with too many windows. Each page slid from a shelf that had been sealed since the first famine and landed in a neat stack before Captain Ivo Rell.
"Those are not mine," she said.
Sol read the signatures. "They are yours in three legal senses and impossible in two."
The third cup cooled.
That was worse than steam.
It meant the uncertain witness had become certain of something the living had not asked.
Captain Rell touched the child's drawing. "There were children aboard?"
The archive lights dimmed over every memorial shelf except one.
Sol folded his hands. "Now we have shaped the correct question."