Nova Whiskers laid out the blueprints one more time. The engineers glanced at each other. Someone coughed. Another checked his watch. She explained the orbital mechanics, the life support specs, the solar array configurations for a space station that would save strays from freezing on the streets below. One by one, they left. Nova packed her papers in the neon pink glow of the internet cafe where she'd rented the meeting pod. Her paws moved slowly, precisely. She'd paid for another hour but had no one left to pitch. Then she heard claws on metal behind her. A gray tabby stood in the doorway, calculator still in his paw. He pointed at her thermal regulation diagram and asked if she'd considered micrometeorite shielding in sector seven.