And besides, microgravity was turning out to be a pain in the butt to work in. Anything that wasn’t tied down just floated away. It was easy enough to remember that for major pieces of equipment, but it also applied to her notebook, pens, pencils, handkerchief, and she wasted a lot of time chasing down elusive items of equipment. And she had to make a conscious effort to anchor herself — with foot stirrups, or by holding on to a rack surface, or by wrapping her legs around a strut — before she tried to move anything. Otherwise, every time she turned a switch on the control panel, the switch would just turn her back.

It was like working on an ice rink: a huge, invisible, three-dimensional ice rink, across whose surface items kept escaping from her, slithering away along perfectly straight lines, and on which she felt she was constantly losing her balance.

When York came floating back down into the wardroom, Phil Stone was already in the little galley area, working on the lunch. Food packages and trays floated in the air beside him.

A TV camera, fixed to the wall of the wardroom, was fixed on him; York vaguely remembered that they were scheduled for another public broadcast. She wondered how many people were still watching.

Stone glanced up at York. “You’re starting to look like an astronaut, Natalie.”

“How so?”

“Take a look in the mirror.”

The nearest mirror was fixed over the washbasin. York floated over and inspected herself. Stray wisps of hair floated up around her head in a kind of halo, and the skin under her eyes looked puffy, as if she had been crying. That was another effect of microgravity: the accumulation of fluids under the skin of the face. She prodded at the fleshy pads under her eyes; the skin was tender, as if stretched.

Gershon came soaring down the fireman’s pole, upside down. “Hello, Japan-ee lady,” he said, pulling his eyes slantways.

There was a hiss of static from the comms panel fixed to the wall. “Ares, Houston. We see a box of goodies there, Phil.” Capcom today was Bob Crippen.

York sensed the others stiffening, subtly. Crippen’s forced banter signaled they were going out to the public. We’re onstage again, guys.

Stone held up an anonymous brown bag. “Good day, Bob. Would you believe you’re looking at chicken stew? All I have to do is push the pack inside this little sliding drawer here, like so, and that injects the bag with three ounces of hot water, and I pull it out and mush it up a little. And there you go; beautiful chicken stew.” He stuck the stew onto a tray floating beside him; the tray held four bags, a can of nuts, and a sachet of tropical punch, all fixed with Velcro. Stone floated the tray to Gershon. “Come and get it.”