The Mimas 4’s crew were our extensions, in as much as they shared our wonder. Of course they were also our betters but it never showed until that final day, far from Earth, the starcraft a lone vestige of solidity beneath their feet. Leyton was very much the joker. He couldn’t help smiling, even when he spoke, and had a favourite string of cowrie shells he took everywhere that were always running through his fingers. Unsurprisingly, he also had very little stress. Anis was way more serious than her husband, only because she cared so much. Often she would look into the tiny camera at the world, frowning at some distant problem, and our hearts would ache with the need to solve it on her behalf. Bai was hyperactive, talked fast and moved even quicker. He and Leyton formed a bond far beyond their years together, while women Earthwide wrote interzone messages proclaiming love for the soft-spoken Frenchman. Emilia was the hippy of the group, delighting in soft electronic music and wading through waist-high grass. She and Anis were often inseparable.

They worked tirelessly over a four-year period until launch day at the Vikram Sarabhai Space Centre, Kerala, August 25th 2220. We followed them on that final night until they woke at 4 to prepare for an 11 a.m. launch. It was warm, the sky clear and winds calm, as predicted. Leyton and Anis slept curled together. Bai lay on his back dressed in a faded blue NASA T-shirt and boxers, snoring. The sheets beside him lay flat and empty.

There was a flurry of camera angles and shots as, in a manned studio far away, some maddened production manager screamed at his director to find Emilia Jonas so the world would know what she was doing the night before world history fragmented from its known trajectory for ever. We screamed at the vid-gel right along with him.

Three long hours. By then, it was 2 a.m. An eagle-eyed line manager saw tracks in the sand, tracing them to a beach, the breadcrumbs of discarded hemp trousers, a thin jacket. Satellite imagery zoomed in. The tree. Emilia lay prone, nightdress billowing in the sea breeze, high on a thick branch, blonde hair trailing like a willow, the curled Gye Nyame tattoo on her right shoulder exposed, dead to the world.

Everyone calmed down after security guards were sent to retrieve her body and she jumped awake, alarmed by the lights and the shouting and the dogs tugging their handlers into a stuttered trot: weapons drawn, pointed in all directions, in search of the unthinkable. She’d been sleeping. Just sleeping. Someone, the line manager perhaps, focused a camera on the empty Kingfisher bottle at the root of the tree. It remained there a full minute. Emilia only wanted one last night by the ocean, to hear the wash and wane of the tide, the call of night birds and chorus of insects. Just like anybody else. Just like us.