Eating in space requires designing and packaging meals with long shelf lives, in single servings that can survive microbe-killing heat treatment or complete dehydration. Despite these new restrictions, the Oceanus menu was expansive, featuring over three hundred items developed by NASA, the Russian and European space agencies, and Japan.

Standing at one of four food stations in the galley like a fish out of water, I pretended to scan a computerized menu before selecting shrimp cocktail as my entrée, a juice pouch as a beverage.

Processing the request, GOLEM extracted the items from bins in the galley storage area using a ceiling-mounted robotic arm that resembled an elephant’s trunk. Designed by the automation company Festo, the robotic appendage was composed of three flexible polyamide coils welded as one to create a tentacle possessing a fluid motion. The trunk ended in three triangular fingers designed to grasp objects.

Selecting the items chosen, the bionic trunk placed the vacuum-packed meal and beverage on a conveyor belt for delivery.

I collected my lunch, then debated my next move. Eleven members of the crew were seated at the long rectangular table situated at the center of the galley. One empty chair remained. Heading for it, I set my food down at the place setting, only to be chided by Monique DeFriend.

“Sorry, Eisenbraun, that’s reserved for Commander Read.” She pointed to four bar stools set up by a snack bar. “Thirteen crewmen, twelve chairs. Guess you’re the odd man out.”

The other men and women stopped eating, waiting to see how I’d react.

“Thirteen’s always been my lucky number.” Grabbing my lunch, I walked over to the snack bar, eleven pairs of eyes following me. No worries. Only two more weeks of playing the unwanted camper until these assholes will be tucked in for their thirty-day nap.

I made a mental note to piss in Monique’s cryogenic tub.

Inspecting my lunch, I realized the vacuum-sealed plastic container of shrimp was a lot tougher to open than I expected. Trying my best not to draw attention, I attempted to puncture the thick wrap with my fork, but snapped the plastic utensil in half.

My struggle summoned the Chinese-Indian woman. As she approached, ABE’s short-term memory aid identified her as Dharma Yuan.

“Hi. I’m Robert Eisenbraun.”

“Yes, I know.” Her hair was brushed, but damp, probably from having just taken a hot bath. Her long ponytail smelled of lilac, and it left a wet mark on her jumpsuit down to the small of her back.

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked, seeking her gratitude.

“I remember you nearly killed me.”

“What? No … I was the one who carried you inside. You were out on the ice, freezing.”

“I was in a transcendental state, my mind had transformed my body into a furnace. Your aura broke the trance.”

“It did? I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Are you okay now?”