"She's almost eight," you say, dubious. The specifics of Sappho's hatchdate is one of the many details you are unclear on, like her symbolhight, or her precise height, or if her gills are functional in liquid less oxygenated than sopor. "I think."

"I don't see why you'd care, though. Seven is hardly a pupa, and several of my compatriots have already contributed pails for older quadrantmates," you say primly. Some people are embarrassed about this sort of thing, but you're too old for that: drone season is just a fact of life. "You're eight and a half, aren't you? That's only seventeen perigees in difference."