He could feel the glass pricking at his fingers. And, as he rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, it was working his way into his skin, he saw. It seemed to be smoothing out his fingertips, taking away his individuality under a surface of lunar debris. He suspected it would take a long time, a lot of washing, before he could get himself clean of this stuff.

He started greasing his suit’s zippers and neck and wrist ring seals.

The toilet was waste tubes and plastic bags. Embarrassing intimacy.

When it was time to sleep, they slung fire-proof Beta-cloth hammocks across the shelter, one over the other. Henry elected for the bottom bunk.

Geena gave him a sleeping bag, and a length of hose.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Pump your bag full of water.”

“Are you crazy?… Oh. So this is NASA’s plan for protecting us from radiation.”

“You got it.” She dumped her own sleeping bag onto her bunk, and ran a tube from the water tank. When her bag lining was full she hung a blanket over the sun’s blurred image, darkening the hab, and clambered into her bunk.

Henry climbed inside his own bag and tried to lie down. It was like settling into a wraparound water bed. Every time Geena moved, she gurgled; and, he supposed, so did he.

Just above him, Geena barely made a dent in her own hammock, but he could see the curve of her hips, the way she’d tucked her legs up a little way towards her stomach, just like she always used to.

He tried to sleep.

The shelter was full of noise, the bangs and whirs of coolant pumps and ventilation machinery.

He’d read that the old Apollo guys had trained for sleeping on the Moon by camping out in Lunar Module simulators, with a tape of LM noises playing in the background. They should have just slept in a boiler room, he thought.

…There was a creak. He had a sense of falling.

His eyes snapped open.

“Geena,” he hissed. “Are you awake?”

Geena’s voice was hushed. “Hell, yes, I’m awake.”

“Did you hear that?”

“Hell, yes, I heard it.”

“Do you think we’re tipping?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t suppose this damn thing is going to roll over altogether?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“No. I can’t tell for sure which way is up. This low gravity—”

“Henry.”

“What?”

“Why are we whispering?”

Henry pushed his way out of his hammock. He collided softly with Geena, who came tumbling down from the top bunk; he held onto her upper arms, to keep them both from falling over.