“Yeah,” he whispered back. “Coke paid a million bucks to get these cans on the Mission Module, but they just can’t get the damn mix right.” He started to juggle with the lith and Coke cans, sending them spinning and oscillating from hand to hand. York had already observed that microgravity was like a three-dimensional playground for the guys; as soon as they’d gotten into the Mission Module’s big workshop area Stone and Gershon had started doing cartwheels and loops and spins, throwing bits of gear to each other like Frisbees.

Gershon’s eyes kept straying to her chest.

She resisted the temptation to fold her arms across her T-shirt. Well, that’s it. She had a stock of sports bras, and in future she’d be wearing one every time she left her sleep cubicle. No significant relating on this damn mission.

Gershon looked away and sipped at his Coke.

“What’s with the lith cylinders?”

He shrugged. “You know me. I catnap. I’m not sleepy now; I figured I might as well get ahead of myself.” He cackled. “You know, I even got a little shut-eye during the docking.”

That was true. And, with York still unable to rest, there he was, drinking Coke and ogling her chest and getting ahead of his chores.

“You’re an asshole, Ralph,” she said with passion.

He grinned at her. “I know how you’re feeling, by the way.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Stuffy head, right?”

“I know what it is. Zero G. Blood gathering in my chest and my head—”

“Look, if it’s really bad, you should take a scop/Dex.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Suit yourself. What else? You got a sore back, right?”

“Yeah.” She rubbed at her lower spine. “How did you know?”

“You want to know where that comes from? I’ll tell you. In your bag, you’re never perfectly stable. There’s always a little bit of movement. You drift this way and that. And you know what your body does in response?”

“Tell me.”

“Your toes clench. Right up, into tiny little balls.”

“Why?”

“Because here we are flying to Mars, but we’re still goddamn apes who think we’re going to fall out of a tree any minute. Anyhow, that’s where the back pains come from.”

“So what do I do?”

“Just unclench.” He grinned. “Chill out and unclench. And, Natalie. Use eye masks and earplugs if you have to. What the hell. I won’t tell.”

She went back to her closet. Maybe I’ll give up on trying to sleep and follow Gershon’s example. Get ahead of the day. But she climbed back into her sleeping bag, and it felt warm, and she turned off her overhead light and stretched out again.

She made a deliberate effort to uncurl her toes. Immediately, her back felt easier. Hey, what do you know? The asshole was right.

She closed her eyes.

Wednesday, May 24, 1972

MOSCOW