question: Where is the narrator? answer: A high-class space station paragraph: Fact: Hell is other people. Sure, the ship was spacious. We didn't pick up many passengers—just the select, special few, scattered here and there between the stars. But we were all on this ship, and we were on it together. Cliques form in any decent-sized group of people. Me, I was singled out by Sarah, an unassuming forty-something lady with a glass of champagne in one hand and the arm of a scrawny but tall blond man in the other. She sidled up to me as I was scooping little round crackers and what appeared to be a baked cilantro cream dip onto a plate. The plate, by the way, was already loaded with folded pieces of smoked pink fish, paprika-dusted deviled eggs, toothpicks stabbed through green vegetables and slices of cheese, and balls of meat smothered in a tomato-based sauce. Luxurious, even compared to the fare one would find in the high-class space stations and pleasure cruisers. Compared to what a mere engineer would get on your typical cargo ship, it was mouthwateringly, lip-smackingly gorgeous. I wondered if the food delivered to my quarters the past few days had been similarly amazing. I decided it couldn't have been. "Liking the taste of the sweet life, eh? I'm Sarah, and this is Alexis—you must be the new pickup." She looked me over approvingly. "Come on, let's get you a glass of champagne." I looked longingly at the slices of cheddar olive bread as she whisked me over to the bar, but didn't protest. 