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’
I
knew
we
couldn
’
t
be
near
our
system
,
’
Ripley
mumbled
.
’
I
know
the
area
.
’
She
nodded
toward
the
screen
hanging
above
her
own
station
.
’
That
’
s
nowhere
near
Sol
,
and
neither
are
we
.
’
’
Keep
trying
,
’
Kane
ordered
her
.
He
turned
back
to
face
Lambert
.
’
So
then
where
are
we
?
You
got
a
reading
yet
?
’
’
Give
me
a
minute
,
will
you
?
This
isn
’
t
easy
.
We
’
re
way
out
in
the
boondocks
.
’
’
Keep
trying
.
’
’
Working
on
it
.
’
Several
minutes
of
intense
searching
and
computer
-
cooperation
produced
a
tight
grin
of
satisfaction
on
her
face
.
’
Found
it
.
.
and
us
.
We
’
re
just
short
of
Zeta
II
Reticuli
.
We
haven
’
t
even
reached
the
outer
populated
ring
yet
.
Too
deep
to
grab
onto
a
navigation
beacon
,
let
alone
a
Sol
traffic
relay
.
’
’
So
what
the
hell
are
we
doing
here
?
’
Kane
wondered
aloud
.
’
If
there
’
s
nothing
wrong
with
the
ship
and
we
’
re
not
home
,
why
did
Mother
defrost
us
?
’
It
was
only
coincidence
and
not
a
direct
response
to
the
exec
’
s
musing
,
but
an
attention
-
to
-
station
horn
began
its
loud
and
imperative
beeping
.
.
Near
the
stern
of
the
Nostromo
was
a
vast
chamber
mostly
filled
with
complex
,
powerful
machinery
.
The
ship
’
s
heart
lived
there
,
the
extensive
propulsion
system
that
enabled
the
vessel
to
distort
space
,
ignore
time
,
and
thumb
its
metallic
nose
at
Einstein
.
.
and
only
incidentally
power
the
devices
that
kept
her
fragile
human
crew
alive
.
