It's a good night's thinking. Nobody interferes. Stars are hanging in the raceme from the sky like grapes. Singing cicadas. Their repertoire seems inexhaustible. Only an insect with legs, mustache, abdomen, membranes and eardrums. They sing like clockwork, day and night, all their energy is spent on attracting females. Just some sexual maniacs. On South American - those are louder than the sound of a steam engine. Can you imagine what it's like to live next door to them? Ours, on Ceres, are more ordinary. Under their singing, sitting by the window, you can think about living and being. It is worth it. And the central question: what was in that damn package, which I delivered to the station on arrival and about the recipient of which I did not know anything. I was not told to. Everyone should know their maneuver. If the package were empty, as I had initially guessed, it would appear that it was a distraction to clear the way for me get to Ceres. This is one option. And if it was a message for a "mole" in the highest echelons of power? Or - God forbid, of course - spy report: the mobilization plans of the earthlings, the coordinates of the launchers of intercontinental ballistic missiles, the location of the mobile special forces, the reserve command post of the troops, finally, the holy of holies: where will the Earth's government hide in the event of hostilities? Then what?