Bill turned his attention back to tube #23. What would this gelatinous mass look like under the microscope?

He slid tube #23 into the Plexiglas glove box, closed the hatch, and inserted his hands in the attached gloves. If there was any spillage, it would be confined to the box. Loose fluids floating around in microgravity could wreak havoc on the station’s electrical wiring.

Gently he loosened the tube seal. He knew the were under pressure, he could see the cap was bulging. Even so, was shocked when the top suddenly exploded off like a champagne cork.

He jerked back as a blue-green glob splatted against the inside of the glove box. It clung there for a moment, quivering as alive. It was alive, a mass of microorganisms, joined in a matrix.

“Bill, we need to talk.” The voice startled him. Quickly he recapped the culture tube and turned to face Michael Griggs, who had just entered the module. Floating right behind Griggs was Diana. The beautiful people, Bill thought. Both of them looked sleek and athletic in their navy blue NASA shirts and cobalt shorts.

“Diana tells me you’re having problems,” said Griggs. “We just spoke to Houston, and they think it might help if you considered some medication. Just to get you through the next few days.”

“You’ve got Houston worried now, have you?”

“They’re concerned about you. We all are.”

“Look, my crack about the CRV was purely sarcastic.”

“But it makes us all nervous.”

“I don’t need any Valium. Just leave me alone.” He removed the tube from the glove box and returned it to its slot in the cell unit. He was too angry to work on it now.

“We have to be able to trust you, Bill. We have to depend on each other up here.”

In fury, Bill turned to face him. “Do you see a raving lunatic in front of you? Is that it?”

“Your wife is on your mind now. I understand that. And—”

“You wouldn’t understand. I doubt you give your wife much thought these days.” He shot a knowing glance at Diana, then launched himself down the length of the module and into the connecting node. He started to enter the Lab module, but stopped he saw Luther was there, setting up the midday meal.

There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to be alone.

Suddenly in tears, he backed out of the hatchway and retreated into the cupola.

Turning his back to the others, he stared through the windows at the earth. Already, the Pacific coast was rotating into view.

Another sunrise, another sunset.

Another eternity of waiting.

Kenichi watched Griggs and Diana float out of the lab module, each propelled by a well-gauged push-off. They moved with such grace, like fair-haired gods. He often studied them when they weren’t watching, in particular, he enjoyed looking at Diana Estes, a woman so blond and pale she seemed translucent.

Their departure left him alone in the lab, and he was able to relax. So much conflict on this station. It unsettled his nerves affected his concentration. He was tranquil by nature, a man content to work in solitude. Though he could understand English enough, it was an effort for him to speak it, and he found conversation exhausting. He was far more comfortable working alone, and in silence, with only the lab animals as company.

He peered through the viewing window at the mice in the animal habitat, and he smiled. On one side of the screened divider twelve males, on the other were twelve females. As a boy growing up in Japan, he had raised rabbits and had enjoyed cuddling them on his lap. These mice, however, were not pets, and they were isolated from human contact, their air filtered and conditioned before they were allowed to mix with the space station’s environment.

Any handling of the animals was done in the adjoining glove box, where all biological specimens, from bacteria to lab rats, could be without fear of contaminating the station’s air.

Today was blood-sampling day. Not a task he enjoyed, because it involved pricking the skin of the mice with a needle. He murmured an apology in Japanese as he inserted his hands into the gloves and transferred the first mouse into the sealed work area. It struggled to escape his grasp. He released it, allowing it to float free while he prepared the needle. It was a pitiful sight to watch, the mouse frantically thrashing its limbs, attempting to propel itself forward.

With nothing to push off against, it drifted helplessly in midair.

The needle now ready, he reached up with his gloved hand to recapture the mouse. Only then did he notice the blue-green blob floating beside the mouse. So close to it, in fact, that with of a pink tongue, the mouse gave it an experimental lick. Kenichi laughed out loud. Drinking floating globules was something the astronauts did for fun, and that’s what the mouse appeared to be doing now, playing with its newfound toy.

Then the thought occurred to him, Where had the blue-green substance come from? Bill had been using the glove box. Was whatever he’d spilled toxic?

Kenichi floated to the computer workstation and looked at the experimental protocol Bill had last called up. It was CCU#23, a culture.

The protocol reassured him that the globule contained nothing dangerous.

Archaeons were harmless single-celled marine organisms, without infectious properties.

Satisfied, he returned to the glove box and inserted his hands.

He reached for the needle.

We have no downlink.

Jack stared up at the plume of exhaust streaking into the azure sky, and terror knifed deep into his soul. The sun was beating down on his face, but his sweat had chilled to ice. He scanned heavens. Where was the shuttle? Only seconds before, he had watched it arc into a cloudless sky, had felt the ground shake the thunder of liftoff. As it had climbed, he’d felt his heart with it, borne aloft by the roar of rockets, and had followed its path heavenward until it was just a glinting pinprick of reflected sunlight.

He could not see it. What had been a straight white plume was now a jagged trail of black smoke.

Frantically he searched the sky and caught a dizzying whirl of images.

Fire in the heavens. A devil’s fork of smoke. Shattered fragments tumbling toward the sea.

We have no downlink.

He woke up, gasping, his body steeped in sweat. It was daylight, and the sun shone, piercingly hot, through his bedroom window.

With a groan he sat up on the side of the bed and dropped his head in his hands. He had left the air conditioner off last night, now the room felt like an oven. He stumbled across his bedroom to flip the switch, then sank down on the bed again and breathed a sigh of relief as chill air began to spill from the vent.

The old nightmare.

He rubbed his face, trying to banish the images, but they were too deeply engraved in his memory. He had been a college freshman when Challenger exploded, had been walking through the dorm lounge when the first film footage of the disaster had aired the television. That day, and in the days that followed, he’d watched the horrifying footage again and again, had incorporated it so deeply into his subconscious that it had become as real to as if he himself had been standing in the bleachers at Cape Canaveral that morning.

And now the memory had resurfaced in his nightmares.

It’s because of Emma’s launch.

In the shower he stood with head bowed under a pounding stream of cool water, waiting for the last traces of his dream to wash away. He had three weeks of vacation starting next week, but he was a long way from being in a holiday mood. He had not taken out the sailboat in months.

Maybe a few weeks out on the water, away from the glare of city lights, would be the best therapy. him, and the sea, and the stars.

It had been so long since he’d really looked at the stars. Lately it seemed he had avoided even glancing at them. As a boy, his eyes had always been drawn heavenward. His mother once told him that, as a toddler, he had stood on the lawn one night and up with both hands, trying to touch the moon. When he could not reach it, he had howled in frustration.