The View From the Top

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The picture of his son caught Michael by surprise. He’d been reading Melissa’s email, smiling at her account of another day spent answering school kids’ questions about the International Space Station, when he’d paged down and there was David looking out of the screen at him. He’d clearly been playing; his hair was tousled and his cheeks were flushed red in the autumn chill. It was such a wonderfully stereotypical photo that Michael laughed, but his laughter caught in a lump in his throat and before he knew what was happening he was in tears, crying quietly there in his corner of the Zvezda Module.

He turned toward the bulkhead so neither Larisa nor Quentin could see him. Thank goodness there weren’t any cameras in the crew quarters. He could see the headlines now: NASA Sends Crybaby to Space; Blubbering Biologist Embarrasses Entire Nation.

He sniffed his suddenly runny nose and dabbed at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. Tears didn’t run in free fall; they built up into big globs that eventually broke free and quivered their way around the hab module until they eventually got sucked into one of the myriad circulation fans. Not a problem if the fan was just blowing into an air recycler—those were designed to deal with high humidity—but most of the fans on board cooled electronic equipment. Splashing salt water on a live circuit could make more than just Michael cry.

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