[Franz reaches in his pocket for a hankie, and frowns when he realizes there's none to produce. He attempts to sit up, still cautiously rubbing at one of Albert's shoulders.

He is desperately glad for a change of subject.]

How can you not know who we are? Who owns the ship? Who pilots it?

Not that I'm not glad to see you again. [More than Franz could ever hope to truly describe.] But this is all very suspicious.