"We're stuck for the time being." Harlock swiped the rain out of his hair. "We can't return to the Arcadia until the storm's passed."

Yama did not seem to be listening to him; his head was tipped back as he watched the rain pouring down—fat drops dripping off the thick green leaves of the canopy above them, the air so thick with the warmth and humidity that it was like breathing through a pillow—and his face was filled with wonder.

Harlock smiled to himself—how had he forgotten that Yama had so rarely seen rain like this?—and settled beside him to wait out the storm.